“Colonna, don’t beat around the bush, you know perfectly well that Braggadocio was stabbed because he was about to reveal important information. Now I don’t know what was true and what he invented, though it’s clear that if his inquiry covered a hundred stories, he must have gotten to the truth on at least one of them, and that is why he was silenced. But since he told me all of it yesterday, it means I also know that one story, though I don’t know which it is. And since he told me that he told you, you know it too. So we’re both in danger. To make matters worse, two hours ago I got a call from Commendator Vimercate.
He didn’t say who told him, or what he’d been told, but Vimercate found out that the entire Domani venture was too dangerous even for him, so he decided to shut the whole thing down. He’s sent me checks for journalists—they’ll each get an envelope with two months’ salary and a few words of thanks. None of them had a contract, so they can’t complain.
Vimercate didn’t know you were in danger as well, but I think you might find it difficult to go around banking a check, so I’m tearing it up—I have some money in hand, your pay packet will contain two months’ in cash. The offices will be dismantled by tomorrow evening. As for us two, you can forget our agreement, your little job, the book you were going to write. Domani is being axed, right now. Even with the newspaper shut, you and I know too much.”
“I think Braggadocio told Lucidi as well.”
“You haven’t understood a thing, have you. That was where he went wrong. Lucidi sniffed out that our dear departed friend was handling something dangerous and went straight off to report it. To whom? I don’t know, but certainly to someone who decided that Braggadocio knew too much. No one’s going to hurt Lucidi, he’s on the other side of the barricade, but they might harm us. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. As soon as the police are out of here, I’m putting the rest of the cash in my bag, shooting straight down to the station, and taking the first train for Switzerland. With no luggage.
I know someone there who can change a person’s identity, new name, new passport, new residence—we’ll have to work out where. I’m disappearing before Braggadocio’s killers can find me. I hope I’ll beat them to it. And I’ve asked Vimercate to pay me in dollars on Credit Suisse. As for you, I don’t know what to suggest, but first of all, don’t go wandering the streets, lock yourself up at home. Then find a way of disappearing, I’d choose eastern Europe, where stay-behind didn’t exist.”
“But you think it’s all to do with stay-behind? That’s already in the public domain. Or perhaps the business about Mussolini? That’s so outlandish no one would believe it.”
“And the Vatican? Even if the story wasn’t true, it would still end up in the papers that the Church had covered up Mussolini’s escape in 1945 and had sheltered him for nearly fifty years. With all the troubles they already have down there with Sindona, Calvi, Marcinkus, and the rest, before they’ve managed to prove the Mussolini business a hoax, the scandal would be all over the international press.
Trust no one, Colonna, lock yourself up at home, tonight at least, then think about getting away. You’ve enough to live on for a few months. And if you go, let’s say, to Romania, it costs nothing there, and with the twelve million lire in this envelope you could live like a lord for some time. After that, well, you can see. Goodbye, Colonna, I’m sorry things have ended this way. It’s like that joke our Maia told about the cowboy at Abilene: Too bad, we’ve lost. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get ready to leave as soon as the police have gone.”
I wanted to get out of there right away, but that damned inspector went on questioning us, getting nowhere fast. Meanwhile evening fell.
I walked past Lucidi’s desk as he was opening his envelope. “Have you received your just reward?” I asked, and he clearly understood what I was referring to.
He looked me up and down and asked, “What did Braggadocio tell you?”
“I know he was following some line of inquiry, but he wouldn’t tell me exactly what.”
“Really?” he said. “Poor devil, who knows what he’s been up to.” And then he turned away.
Once the inspector had said I could leave, with the usual warning to remain available for further questioning, I whispered to Maia, “Go home. Wait there until I phone you, probably not before tomorrow morning.”
She looked at me, terrified. “But how are you involved in all this?”
“I’m not, I’m not, what are you thinking, I’m just upset.”
“Tell me what’s going on. They’ve given me an envelope with a check and many thanks for my invaluable services.”
“They’re closing the newspaper. I’ll explain later.”
“Why not tell me now?”
“Tomorrow, I swear I’ll tell you everything. You stay safe at home. Just do as I say, please.”
She listened, her eyes welling with tears. And I left without saying another word.
I spent the evening at home, eating nothing, draining half a bottle of whiskey, and thinking what to do next. I felt exhausted, took a sleeping pill, and fell asleep.
And this morning, no water in the tap.
XVII, Saturday, June 6, Noon
There. Now I’ve told it all. Let me try to make sense of it. Who are “they”? That’s what Simei said, that Braggadocio had pieced together a number of facts, correctly or incorrectly. Which of these facts could worry somebody? The business about Mussolini? And in that case, who had the guilty conscience? The Vatican? Or perhaps conspirators in the Borghese plot who still held authority (though after twenty years they all must be dead), or the secret services (which?).
Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was just some old Fascist who’s haunted by the past and acted alone, perhaps getting pleasure from threatening Vimercate, as though he had—who knows?—the Sacra Corona Unita behind him. A nutcase, then, but if a nutcase is trying to do away with you, he’s just as dangerous as someone who’s sane, and more so. For example, whether it’s “they” or some lone nutcase, someone entered my house last night.
And having gotten in once, they or he could get in a second time. So I’d better not stay here. But then, is this nutcase or are these “they” so sure I know something? Did Braggadocio say anything about me to Lucidi? Maybe not, or not much, judging from my last exchange of remarks with that sneak. But can I feel safe? Certainly not. It’s a long step, though, between that and escaping to Romania—best to see what happens, read the newspapers tomorrow.
If they don’t mention the killing of Braggadocio, things are worse than I imagine—it means someone’s trying to hush it all up. I’ve got to hide at least for a while. But where? Right now it would be dangerous to stick my nose outside.
I thought about Maia and her hideaway at Orta. My affair with Maia has passed, I think, unnoticed, and she shouldn’t be under surveillance. She no, but my telephone yes, so I can’t telephone her from home, and to telephone from outside means I have to go out.
It occurred to me that there was a back entrance, from the courtyard below, through the toilets, to the local bar. I also remembered a metal gate at the far end of the courtyard that had been locked for decades. My landlord had told me about it when he handed me the keys to the apartment. Along with the key to the main entrance and the landing door, there was another one, old and rusty. “You’ll never need it,” said the landlord with a smile, “but every tenant has had one for the past fifty years. We had no air-raid shelter here during the war, you see, and there was a fairly large one in the house behind, on Via Quarto dei Mille, the road that runs parallel to ours.
So a passageway was opened up at the far end of the courtyard for families to reach the shelter quickly if the alarm sounded. The gate has remained locked from both sides, but each of our tenants had a key, and as you see, in almost fifty years it’s become rusty. I don’t suppose you’ll ever need it, but that gate is also a good escape route in the event of fire. You can put the key in a drawer, if you wish, and forget about it.”
That’s what I had to do. I went downstairs and into the bar through the back door. The manager knows me, and I’ve done it before. I looked around. Hardly anyone there in the morning. Just an elderly couple sitting at a table with two cappuccinos and two croissants, and they didn’t look like secret agents. I ordered a double coffee—I still wasn’t properly awake—and went to the telephone booth. Maia answered immediately in great agitation, and I told her to keep calm and listen.
“So follow carefully, and no questions. Pack a bag with enough for a few days at Orta, then get your car. Behind where I live, in Via Quarto dei Mille, I’m not sure what number, there’ll be an entranceway, more or less the same distance up the road as my place. It could be open,
