The Salamander, page 5
‘Poor fellow! I hope you slept well and chastely. Anything from Lili’s phone tap?’
‘Nothing since her call to you, Colonel.’
‘Good… Now, let’s hear about our little Captain Carpi.’
‘Nothing to tell, Colonel. He passed out cold about three in the morning. I paid the girl and the drink bill from his wallet and then took him home. He’s a bad drunk, Colonel.
‘That’s something new. Anyway, he’s off to Sardinia tomorrow. That should sober him up. Thank you, gentlemen. You may now resume your sleep. Make sure you’re fresh and sharp by eight this evening. You’re still on night roster….’
They slouched out, bleary-eyed and grumbling and I grinned at their discomfiture. This was what the Americans called the name of the game. You walked your feet off. You knocked on doors. You stood watch on street-corners and cruised round smoky clubs. You waded through reams and reams of useless information, until you came up with one fragment of fact, that began or completed a whole mosaic. I had one now: why was Woodpecker, a Polish agent, interested in Marcantonio Leporello, Major-General of the Carabinieri?
As an investigator I have many shortcomings and two special talents. The first is a photographic memory. The second is that I know how to wait. Comes a moment in every investigation when there is nothing to do except wait, and let the chemistry of the case work itself out. If you try to hurry the process, to satisfy yourself or a superior, you make mistakes. You accept false premises, create a fictional logic. You harry your operatives so that they make myopic observations and give you half-answers to keep you happy. You snatch at facile solutions and come up with a handful of smoke.
The Italians love bustle and brouhaha. Sketch them a scene and they will build you an opera inside an hour. They are glib; they are dilatory; they are evasive. They hate to commit themselves either to an opinion or an alliance, lest tomorrow they be held to the consequences. They would rather lose a tooth than sign a binding document. I am a colonel at forty-two because I have learned to make a virtue out of the vices of my countrymen.
The Minister of the Interior wanted action? He got it, scored for brass and tympani. NATO needed a spy scare to tighten up security? Bene! There were twenty scripts to choose from and authentic villains to fit them. There was a stink over a procurement contract? For that, too, there was a magic formula: sabotage by enemy agents, at source, in transit, or on delivery site. But when a big thing came up, the trick was to create a zone of quiet and sit there, visible but enigmatic, digesting the facts in hand, calm as a Buddha waiting for the next turn of the wheel of life. It was a tactic that disconcerted many of my colleagues and irritated some of my superiors : but, most times, it worked – with a little sleight of hand to help the illusion.
At that moment in time, the Pantaleone affair was in suspense. The meaning of the salamander card was not yet deciphered. The General’s papers and his money were in the hands of his lawyer who would probably wait until the last moment before he answered the invito and then stand pat on legal privilege. The man at the funeral might mean nothing. The Cavaliere Manzini was simply a buyer of expensive art. There was nothing yet from the heraldic expert. Nothing … nothing … nothing. Except that a Polish agent, named Woodpecker, was interested in Major-General Leporello. It seemed an appropriate time to have a chat with the Director.
The Director of the Defence Information Service was a character in his own right. He was related on his mother’s side to the Caracciolo of Naples and on his father’s to the Morosini of Venice. In the Service they called him Volpone – the old fox. I had another name for him : Cameleonte, the chameleon. One moment you saw him plain, the next you had lost him against the political undergrowth. He had the manners of a prince and the mind of a chess-player. He had a sense of history and a conviction that it always repeated itself. He was an ironist in eight languages, and had made conquests in all of them. He played tennis, sailed a keel-boat, collected primitive art and was a devotee of chamber music in which he sometimes played viola. He was inordinately rich, generous to those he liked and ruthless as a public executioner to those he did not. He insisted that I, Dante Alighieri Matucci, was one of those he liked; one of the few he respected. We had clashed often. He had tempted me, more than once, but I had sniffed at the bait and turned away from it with a grin and a shrug. I made no secret of my weakness, but I was damned if I would be blackmailed with them, by the Director or anyone else. And if the Director wanted to play games, I had a few of my own, with rather complicated rules.
I was playing one now. Major General Leporello was a big man in the Carabinieri. I wanted to know whether the Director was big enough to handle him if ever there were a need. So, without ceremony, I put the question:
‘Woodpecker is interested in Leporello. Why?’
The Director was instantly alert, the old fox sniffing a hostile air. He said, evenly:
‘Isn’t it your job to tell me?’
‘No, sir, not yet. Leporello’s dossier is marked “Reserved to Director”.’
‘Forgive me, I’d forgotten. Let me see now. General Leporello has spent the last five months abroad.’
‘Where?’
‘Japan, Vietnam, South Africa, Brazil, the United States, Great Britain, Greece, France.’
‘Who paid the fare?’
‘The tour was official. The General was on a study mission.’
‘Studying what?’
‘Riot control and counter-insurgency.’
‘Do you know the General personally, sir?’
‘Yes. He’s a sound man.’
‘Vulnerable?’
‘He’s a patriot, a devout Catholic, a Christian Democrat and financially independent. I doubt he could be bought or frightened.’
‘Attacked? Assassinated?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Seduced?’
‘By what, Colonel?’
‘The ultimate infirmity – ambition.’
‘For example … ?’
‘The man who devises the strategy of counter-revolution might decide to put it into practice on his own account … or on account of a potent minority.’
‘Any evidence?’
‘Indications only. Woodpecker and his network have a commission which I quote: “… to give early warning of any attempt at a colpo di stato by neo-fascist groups, or of actions designed to provoke it.” If Woodpecker is interested in Leporello, we have to be interested, too.’
‘You’re in unicorn country, Matucci.’
‘Half our lives, we deal with fables. Sometimes the fables come true.’
‘In Leporello’s case, I think not. However, let me play with the idea. I’ll come back to you. For the moment, no action.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then, permit me to offer you a compliment. I like your attitude to your work, careful and open-minded. That’s rare, necessary, too, in these times.’
‘You are kind, sir. Thank you.’
‘Until later then.’
I walked out a very pensive man. If the Director was scared, everybody else should be running for cover. If the Director was committed to a cause or a compromise, nothing would divert him but a bullet in the head. He was the perfect cinquecento man, with a confessor at his right hand and a poet on his left, while his enemies rotted, howling, in the dungeons beneath his feet. I was named after a poet and needed a confessor; but I had no slightest wish to end my days in the dungeons of official disfavour. And yet … and yet… A man who could control rioters and urban guerrillas might, one fine tomorrow, control the country, especially if he were a patriot, a good Christian and didn’t have to worry about his rent or his dinner.
I was hardly back in my office when my secretary announced that Doctor Sergio Bandinelli had answered my invito and was waiting to see me.
The advocate was short, fussy and very irascible. I debated for a moment whether to play the bureaucrat or the gentleman, and then decided to smother him with courtesy. I regretted the need to disturb a busy man. I was grateful for so prompt a response. I trusted to dispose quickly of the few matters in question. I understood the relationship between advocate and client. It was my duty to protect that relationship and to discourage any breach of it. However…
‘… In cases where national security is involved, Avvocato, we both need to be slightly more flexible. I am sure you understand that.’
‘No, Colonel, I do not. I am here to protest the illegal seizure of my client’s papers and to require their immediate delivery into my hands.’
‘No problem at all. You may take the papers with you when you leave. As for the protest, what’s the profit? The Defence Information Service works under presidential directive, and to rather special rules. Of course, if you wish to press a complaint …’
‘Well … under the circumstances…’
‘Good! I am encouraged now to take you into our confidence, to solicit your assistance in a matter of importance.’
‘I am happy to assist, Colonel, provided I may reserve my position in the event of conflict of interest.’
‘Of course. Let us proceed then. General Pantaleone was an important man. His death has political consequences. I am directed to study those consequences. I am interested, therefore, in every aspect of the General’s activities. He was, for example, engaged in liquidating his estate, selling shares, preparing to disperse his art collection. Why?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’
‘His brokers inform us that the proceeds of his shares were transmitted to you. What were you directed to do with the money?’
‘I cannot tell you that, either.’
‘I am afraid you must.’
‘No, Colonel. Legal privilege.’
‘Before you invoke it, let me tell you something else. Your late client maintained relations with a member of a foreign espionage network.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true, nevertheless. You, yourself, are under surveillance by the same network.’
‘Is this some kind of threat, Colonel?’
‘No threat, Avvocato, a statement of fact. So … when you refuse to disclose what has happened to large sums of money, you put yourself in some jeopardy. Crime is involved, a threat to the security of the State. Your client is dead. You are answerable for your part in his affairs. So, I ask you again. What happened to the money?’
‘I was instructed to reinvest it.’
‘Where?’
‘Abroad. In Switzerland and in Brazil for the most part.’
‘And if the art collection had been sold, and the land?’
‘The same instruction applied.’
‘Such export of funds requires approval from the Ministry of Finance. Did you have it?’
‘Well, no … but the nature of the transaction….’
‘Don’t tell me, Avvocato. The transaction would involve intermediaries who have safe channels for currency export. They charge five per cent for their services. For this, they guarantee immunity to the client. It’s an old story. It doesn’t hold water and you know it. You can be charged with conspiracy to circumvent the law. You’re lucky I’m an intelligence investigator and not a policeman … but I can change my hat any moment I choose. So talk, Avvocato! Don’t play children’s games! … Why was Pantaleone exporting funds?’
‘In sum, he was afraid. He had joined himself with the new Fascists as their military adviser and as commander-in-chief in case of a colpo di stato. Their provocative tactics worried him. He felt they were not strong enough to risk a colpo di stato and that, if they tried, it would lead to civil war. All the strength of the Movement is in the South. In the North, the Left is in control and far better organized. So the Movement began to lose faith in Pantaleone. They wanted to move him out in favour of a bolder man.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did Pantaleone know?’
‘No. All he knew was that it was someone who was not in the Movement but who might be attracted into it when the time was right.’
‘A military man?’
‘Obviously. If they were provoking a disturbance, they had to be able to offer military action to suppress it. That’s the whole point of provocation, no?’
‘So, the General was frightened. Of a rival or of something else?’
‘Of action against himself.’
‘What sort of action?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then guess.’
‘Damage to his reputation. Some kind of revelation of his past.’
‘Blackmail, in fact?’
‘Yes. He had a chequered career and many enemies.’
‘Had he received any direct threats?’
‘Well … in a legal sense, no.’
‘In common sense, Avvocato?’
‘About a week ago he received a communication by messenger.’
‘What sort of communication?’
‘It consisted of a very complete and accurate biography which, if it had ever been published, would have damaged his reputation beyond repair and banished him forever from public life.’
‘He showed it to you?’
‘Yes. He asked whether there might be any defence against publication or any means of tracing the author. I advised him there was not … at least not without risk of spreading the information dangerously.’
‘But a threat of publication was made?’
‘I read it so.’
‘Read what?’
‘A card, attached to the typescript.’
I laid the salamander card on the table before him.
‘This card?’
The advocate picked it up, gingerly, examined it and agreed.
‘Yes, that’s the one. Where did you get it?’
‘I found it in the General’s bedroom. What happened to the biography?’
‘He lodged it in his strong box at the bank.’
‘Which you emptied yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want it. I want all his documents.’
‘I’ll give them to you, happily – on a judge’s order. Without it, no.’
‘This card, Avvocato, what does it signify?’
‘To me, nothing.’
‘What did it signify to the General?’
‘I can only tell you what he said.’
‘Yes?’
‘He was a taciturn man, given to aphorisms. He said … “Well, Saint Martin’s day at last.”’
‘And what the devil was that supposed to mean?’
‘He wouldn’t explain it. He never did. I puzzled over it for a long time; then I found the reference. It’s in Don Quixote: “To every pig comes Saint Martin’s day.” In Spain, pigs are usually killed on the feast of St Martin.’
‘Doctor Bandinelli, I am sure you are a very good advocate. You never tell a lie. You simply bury the part of the truth that really matters and the law protects you while you do it. However, you’ve stepped outside the law and put yourself and your privilege in jeopardy. You can fight me, of course. You can delay me, by tactics and quibbles, but your St Martin’s day will come in the end. If you want to avoid it, I’m prepared to make a bargain with you. I’ll forget the currency question. I’ll send a man with you now to assemble every paper you hold on the Pantaleone family. He will list the papers, then lock and seal them in your safe. Tomorrow I will come to your office and go through them with you. That way you keep your privilege and I get the informaton I want. Agreed?’
‘I seem to have no choice.’
‘Very little.’
‘Then I agree.’
‘Good. You can sign for the papers we hold and take them back with you. When you go home this evening, leave the key of your office with my man. He will spend the night there.’
‘Why?’
‘Protection, Avvocato. Politics is a risky business these days.’
I meant it as an irony. I was the old-line professional patronizing a civilian. I should have known better. In this trade, in this country, you are always standing on a trapdoor with a hangman’s noose around your neck.
The which being said, I agree an explanation is needed. This so-called Republic of Italy, we so-called Italians, are not a nation at all. We are provinces, cities, countrysides, tribes, fractions, families, individuals – anything and everything but a unity. Ask that fellow over there, the street-cleaner, what he is. He will answer, “I am a Sard, a Calabrese, a Neapolitan, a Romagnolo.” Never, never, will he tell you he is an Italian. That girl in the Ferrari, she’s a Venetian, a Veronese, a Padovan. Wife, mistress, mother or rare virgin, she names herself for a place, a plot of separate earth. I, myself, as I have told you, am a Tuscan. I serve, because I am paid to serve, the nebulous public thing called the State; but my belonging is elsewhere – Florence and the Medici and the Arno and the pines planted over the graveyards of my ancestors. The consequence? A kind of anarchy, which the Anglo-Saxons will never understand; a kind of order which they understand even less. We know who we are, man by man, woman by woman. We despise the outlander because he is different. We respect him because he knows and we know who he is. So, my dilemma: I can never say, “This is the enemy, destroy him!” I must say, “This is the enemy of the moment, but he comes from my country, his sister is married to my cousin and tomorrow we may need to be friends. How must I comport myself so that the links are not broken even though the chain be stretched to breaking-point?”
There are many who say that, in this system, there is no place for patriots, only for pragmatists and opportunists. These are dirty words – or are they? We have to survive: a practical problem. We have one life, one opportunity to come to terms with it. So long as the terms are negotiable, we try to negotiate. If we are forced to a base bargain, we accept it and wait for a tomorrow when the contract may be annulled or varied by mutual consent. As you see, I know it all. So there is no excuse for the follies I began to commit that afternoon.
The first was my contemptuous bargain with Doctor Sergio Bandinelli. I judged him for a frightened and pliable man. I gave him for guardian a junior agent, one Giampiero Calvi. I issued a set of simple instructions. Calvi would accompany Bandinelli to his office. He would take possession of the Pantaleone papers, list them, lock them in the advocate’s safe, seal the safe and remain in the office until I relieved him at nine the next morning. During the night, he would call the duty-officer at headquarters every hour on the hour. Calvi was a promising young man. I read him no lectures. I presumed on the training I, myself, had given him.
