‘But you haven’t changed your mind?’

  Ahmed Farah gave him an intense look. ‘You just have to put two and two together.’

  Somenti, not sure what he meant, raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘The reason there haven’t been any genuine claims is because the Piazza del Cestello wasn’t the target. The bomb went off by mistake. One of the victims, the one closest to the explosion, was an illegal immigrant, an Arab, remember? Coincidence? Or maybe he was doing something with the car? Let’s say he was supposed to move it a few hundred yards. Where is the Piazza del Cestello? Not far from the Pitti Palace and the Ponte Vecchio, not all that far from the Uffizi either. All rather more striking targets, don’t you think?’

  Captain Somenti shuddered. ‘You mean they could try again? Is that why they’ve stayed instead of leaving immediately? ’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be so easy for them now. Security’s been tightened. ’

  ‘Unless the threat level drops and the investigation shifts to other areas.’

  ‘Which is what seems to be happening. At least officially.’

  ‘And that makes it all the likelier that they’ll try again, and sooner rather than later. Which means only one thing.’

  ‘We don’t have much time!’ Somenti said.

  In the afternoon, Rizzo was summoned to the commissioner’s office.

  He found him sitting behind his desk, head bent over a document he was holding in his hand. It was from the Prosecutor’s Department, a request by Acting Prosecutor Giulietti for maximum cooperation from the police in pursuing the investigation into the bombing, an investigation which at the moment seemed to be ever more oriented towards the Mafia.

  ‘These prosecutors!’ Lepri burst out, grimacing and tossing the paper into a corner of his desk before the superintendent had even sat down. ‘Female ones worst of all! It seems the only kind of crime that matters is Mafia-related, as if that was the only problem faced by the State. Have you read it?’

  Rizzo was temporarily lost for words.

  ‘Didn’t you get a copy of this letter from Acting Prosecutor Giulietti?’ Lepri picked it up and held it out. ‘It’s addressed to you, too.’

  Rizzo read it. ‘No, Commissioner, I haven’t received it yet, but I have received detailed instructions to pursue investigations into a number of Mafiosi.’

  Riccardo Lepri made no attempt to conceal his disgust, which obviously put Rizzo in an embarrassing situation. The commissioner advised him to do as the acting prosecutor requested, but not to use too many of his men, as his squad ought to be dealing with more important aspects of the case, then said, ‘I’ve asked the head of the General Investigations Division to involve his counter-terrorism section in the car bomb investigation.’

  Rizzo knew that the General Investigations Division were providing whatever information they could, as was standard practice, but he had not been expecting them to be fully involved in the investigation itself. Caught off guard, he did not know what to say in response. He sensed a lack of trust, and was about to defend the conduct of his squad when Lepri started speaking again.

  ‘You know, Superintendent, the head of the General Investigations Division does have his informants, and, more importantly, he has the support of Military Intelligence, and I think he may have some good leads which could throw light on the bombing.’

  That was all Lepri was prepared to say, but it was clear that he was viewing the case from the international terrorism angle.

  ‘I’d be happy if the General Investigations Division could solve the case for us,’ Rizzo replied.

  ‘We’d all be happy, Superintendent. But I want you to cooperate fully, make everything we learn available to them; the results of the crime scene investigation and the forensics tests, the investigations into the stolen car, and so on.’

  ‘Of course, Commissioner.’

  ‘And I don’t want any leaks, especially to the press. We don’t want people becoming any more alarmed than they already are. I’m sure you understand that. Some newspapers would leap on the Mafia connection like manna from heaven.’

  ‘I’ll be as discreet as I can, Commissioner.’

  ‘Good, Superintendent. I see we understand each other. Well, that’s no surprise. As I’ve already said, I have every confidence in you.’

  Sure you have, Rizzo thought, pretending to be pleased. A clash with the commissioner was the last thing he wanted, especially with Ferrara absent.

  When he got back to his office, he received a call from Sergi.

  ‘I have something for you, chief.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Rizzo collapsed, exhausted, in the armchair and lit a cigarette.

  The inspector started by saying that Salvatore Miano’s car had been confirmed as having been rented at Pisa airport and returned in Palermo.

  ‘But we already knew that, Sergi,’ Rizzo cut in, unable to hide his impatience.

  ‘Chief, I was just going over the results of the checks we ran. I’ve also obtained a copy of the rental contract. But I haven’t yet told you the most important thing.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Here goes. On August 7,2001, flight BM11233 arrived at Pisa airport from Palermo. It got in a little bit late, at 4:05 in the afternoon.’

  ‘Have you checked the passenger list?’

  ‘Of course. Miano’s name was on it, and so was the name of another passenger, Luigi Torri, who checked in at the same time, travelled without baggage, just like Miano, and sat next to Miano on the plane.’

  ‘Ah!’ Rizzo said, finally hooked. ‘Very good, Sergi. That means you have another name to check out in Forte dei Marmi: Torri.’

  ‘That’s right, chief.’

  ‘Go ahead, then. And keep me informed. Thanks.’

  He put down the receiver and took stock of what he had learned. Salvatore Miano had arrived in Pisa, where he had rented a car. He had probably been in the company of a man who had been flying on the same plane. In order to get his airline ticket, Gino La Torre, the fugitive, whose real Christian name was obviously Luigi, had provided a false surname but one that was very close to his real name. It was a subterfuge other criminals had used in the past when trying to hide their true identities. In case their papers were checked by the police, the closer their assumed names were to their real ones, the easier it was to justify it as a mistake made by whoever had issued the ticket.

  It was definitely an interesting result, and a further incentive to persevere with that line of inquiry. Whatever Commissioner Lepri said.

  It occurred to him to inform his colleagues in the Squadra Mobile of Palermo and ask them to find out whatever they could about the purchase of those tickets and about the name Torri. But it was late, and he made a mental note to phone Palermo on Monday morning.

  21

  Sunday October 7 in Forte dei Marmi was so hot, it felt as if summer was not quite over.

  That morning, Inspector Sergi sent his men off to check the companies that rented bicycles, giving every officer photos of Miano and La Torre. He himself decided to visit the Jolanda bathing establishment.

  He had no difficulty finding the place. It was just a few hundred yards from the hotel where he had spent the night, on the long stretch of beach filled with bathing establishments, which were now almost deserted.

  As he approached the entrance, he saw a slim but athletic and tanned young man who was working near the first row of huts. When he came level with him, he showed his badge.

  ‘Inspector Antonio Sergi, Florence Squadra Mobile.’

  The young man looked at him questioningly. ‘I’m the lifeguard here. How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to the owner, could you call her for me?’

  ‘The signora isn’t here yet, but if you like I can phone her.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The young man went into the bar, which was right at the beginning of a row of huts, and when he came back he said, ‘She won’t be long.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  Sergi was tempted to ask the lifeguard a few questions, but he decided it might be best to talk to the owner first.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, a neat-looking woman of about forty appeared. She had short blonde hair, and was just as tanned as the lifeguard.

  He showed her his badge.

  ‘I’m Gina Forte. How can I help, Inspector?’

  He explained the reason for his visit. ‘I know you’ve already been interviewed about this.’

  ‘Yes, some people came from Florence, from the Anti-Mafia Squad, but I think I told them everything I know.’

  ‘I’ve read your statements, but I’d still like a few more details.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector, I have no problem with that,’ she said cordially. ‘If I can help in any way.’

  In the meantime, the lifeguard had gone back to work.

  ‘Why don’t we sit down?’ the woman said, indicating a table shaded by a canopy covered with climbing plants, and offering him a coffee.

  The inspector refused politely and took a small black notepad and a pen from his jacket pocket. Then he showed her the photographs of the two men.

  ‘That’s them, Inspector, I haven’t the slightest doubt about that.’

  ‘Could you describe the two women who were with them?’

  ‘They were both in their thirties. One was about five foot two, and she had bobbed chestnut hair and a long nose.’

  She didn’t mention the long nose before, the inspector thought as he took notes.

  ‘The other woman was more or less the same age and same height, but she had dark hair down to her shoulders, and was quite well-built.’

  ‘Is there anything else you remember?’

  ‘I’m trying to think, Inspector, but I really think I told the other people everything. It’s possible Leonardo may remember something - he has more contact than I do with the customers on the beach.’

  ‘Could you ask him?’

  ‘Leonardo, can you come here, please?’ she called, signalling to the lifeguard to come over. He approached and sat down at the table.

  ‘Leonardo, the inspector would like to know about those customers who paid for the whole month and then left without a word.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the Sicilians.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Sergi said.

  ‘They were a weird lot,’ the young man said. ‘You know, usually the customers here talk to each other, make friends. But not these guys. They were always on their own, never talked much to anyone else. They hardly said a word to me when I went to put up the sunbeds just after they arrived.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else apart from what you’ve already told me?’

  The young man concentrated. ‘No, I don’t think so. That’s all I know.’

  ‘All right, thank you.’

  He said goodbye to them and set off for the town centre, where he had arranged to meet up with his team at midday.

  By lunchtime they were sitting in the hotel restaurant. There were few other customers there, and they had chosen a table in the furthest corner, where they were sure no one would hear them. Whenever the waiter approached they would stop talking and stare at their knives and forks.

  ‘So, Pino, they didn’t hire the bikes, but bought them,’ the inspector resumed, addressing Officer Ricci, who, to satisfy his monumental physique, was already on his second helping of linguine with crayfish.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Ricci had been telling him that he had had no luck with the companies hiring bicycles, but that he had then found a shop in the centre where the owner had recognised the man in one of the two photos as having been a customer. It was the photo of Salvatore Miano.

  ‘He told me he sold him two bikes in August, a man’s and a woman’s.’

  ‘How did he pay?’

  ‘In cash. That particular shop doesn’t accept credit cards or even cheques, unless they’re from people the shopkeeper knows, especially local people.’

  ‘So the buyer, Miano, wasn’t known to him?’ It was more a comment than a question.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘This person, Miano, had a woman with him, and, after paying, they immediately rode off together on the bikes.’

  ‘Did he describe the woman?’

  ‘Yes, he says he remembers her well. His description fits one of the two women mentioned by the owner of the Jolanda, the slim one with bobbed hair.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That’s all, but I think it’s quite important.’

  Indeed it was, because it showed that the Sicilians must have been living in Forte dei Marmi itself.

  ‘Anything from the hotel records?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Officer Ciccio Messina replied.

  He told Sergi he had been to both the police station and the Carbinieri station in Viareggio, which covered that area, but had not found the names Miano, Torri or La Torre in any of the records.

  ‘In that case, we need to check out the agencies that let apartments,’ Sergi said. ‘When we’ve finished lunch, we’ll divide up the areas and go through all the agencies with a fine-tooth comb.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday,’ Ciccio Messina protested weakly.

  ‘I know, but some may be open. This is a tourist spot, and it’s a nice day today. We can at least try. We don’t have anything else to do right now, do we?’

  The waiter approached with a large tray of mixed grilled fish, which he laid in the centre of the table.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ Sergi said. ‘You’ve all done well.’

  22

  The young man without incisors had not managed to meet the forty-eight-hour deadline. Acquiring explosives and carrying them around isn’t like doing the shopping at the supermarket and going home.

  By the time he got back to the house that Sunday, Jan and the other two men were livid with rage. But the sight of the explosive and the two detonators - one of them a spare - helped to calm them.

  In place of the gelatin, he had brought forty-five pounds of a white, granular compound that looked like washing powder.

  Jan immediately put on a pair of gloves and got down to work.

  He had to take great care in handling the material: even the slightest friction could blow them all to smithereens. This time he placed the detonator inside the white powder, then connected the wires to a box containing two twelve-volt batteries, which he fitted inside another, larger box containing a motorcycle battery. The remote would send an impulse first to the box and then to the detonator. Finally he made a package with handles on both sides to make the bomb easier to carry.

  ‘Let’s take that iron chest, too,’ the man with greying hair ordered.

  The young men nodded.

  When placed in the depression, the crate would make the explosion more powerful. They were trying to anticipate every eventuality. They could not afford another mistake: things were already on a knife-edge, and only the complete success of the operation might get them back in their boss’s good books.

  After a spaghetti dinner, they all took a few hours’ rest. Then, when it was still dark, three of the men set off.

  They positioned the device in the same depression as the previous time and covered it with grass which they had cut from the garden.

  It was 5 a.m. on a new day, Monday October 8.

  The two young men went and settled behind the concrete hut, while the driver drove round the area. It was just before eight that he parked on the dirt track off Provincial Route 69 near Tavarnuzze.

  It had been a difficult night. The most difficult of that long week.

  Michele Ferrara had had a restless sleep, and had woken several times bathed in sweat. Each time Petra, who was constantly beside him, stroked his face and tried to calm him. She had twice had to change his pyjamas, but it had never even entered her mind to ask anyone for help.

  She had been reminded at one point, strangely enough, of a woman in labour, perhaps because every time her husband woke he seemed less confused - as if he were giving birth to his own memories, his own feelings, his own life, which had been asleep for too long.

  And it was true, he was remembering. One piece at a time. The ball of fire, Sebastiano Franchi’s stunned face, the pain, the August operation, the arrests, Anna Giulietti, Salvatore Laprua, the phone call from Liuzza - he had to tell someone, he had to tell . . .

  Just before eight in the morning, he woke again with a jolt, and signalled to Petra to give him a pen and notepad.

  I NEED TO SEE RIZZO AND ANNA AT ONCE, he wrote.

  Petra looked at the sentence, nodded reluctantly, stood up and slowly went to get her mobile phone. Deep inside her, she felt a new heaviness. It was her husband she had been waiting anxiously to see again, not the chief superintendent.

  Rizzo’s home phone had rung at 6:50 a.m.

  ‘This is Venturi, chief.’

  ‘A bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve spent all night going over the records of all the mobile phones in the area of the Lungarno Soderini on the morning of the attack.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The chief ’s number was there, too.’

  ‘Of course it was there. We were all trying to contact him.

  I assume our numbers and his wife’s were there, too.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s also another call I thought I had to tell you about, because it coincides with the time of the explosion.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Right. At 7:46, the chief received a call, which lasted just over a minute in all. From another mobile, registered to Silverio Liuzza.’

  ‘Laprua’s lawyer?’ Rizzo cried incredulously, feeling the first shot of adrenalin of the day. ‘So it was Laprua’s lawyer who made Ferrara stop his car?’

  ‘That I don’t know, but I’d say it’s definitely the lawyer.

  There aren’t many Silverios in this neck of the woods.’

 

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