Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (3 page)

‘You’re all wondering what I’m doing here/ he declared when Caputo presented himself in his office.

‘That’s none of our business/ was the unyielding reply.

‘I’m going to tell you anyway/ said Zen. ‘Sit down.’

“I prefer to stand.’

“I don’t give a damn what you prefer. I’m ordering you to sit down.’

Caputo obeyed stiffly.

‘The answer to the question I just raised is very simple/ Zen went on. ‘I requested a transfer.’

For all the effect of these words on Caputo, Zen might just as well not have spoken.

‘You don’t believe me/ Zen remarked.

‘It’s none of our business/ repeated Caputo stolidly.

‘And it’s easy to see why you don’t/ continued Zen.

‘Why should anyone request a transfer from the capital to a posting in a provincial city where he has no family, no friends and doesn’t speak the dialect? And not even to the main Questura but to a dead-end job with the port detail?’

Caputo looked Zen in the eye for the first time, but still offered no comment. Zen took out his pack of Nazionali and offered one to his subordinate, who shook his head.

‘The answer to this question is not so simple/ Zen said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. ‘To use a classical allusion, I had to choose between Scylla and Charybdis. I had made enemies at the ministry, powerful enemies. I knew that they would not let me continue in my previous job, and I suspected that they might attempt to send me to a punishment posting. My only hope was to anticipate them by applying for such a move myself. I took a look at the positions vacant and chose this one. I’m the correct rank to

command this detachment, and since it effectively constitutes a massive demotion from my former position with Criminalpol, my enemies could not intervene without revealing their hand. I had accepted defeat, but on my terms, not theirs.’

‘Who are your enemies?’ whispered Caputo, all attention now.

‘Political.’

‘On the right or the left?’

Zen smiled condescendingly.

‘No one uses those words any more, Caputo. We’re all in the centre nowadays. And my enemies are about as close to the centre as it’s possible to be. In fact at the time of which I am speaking one of their number was the Minister of the Interior.’

Caputo’s eyes widened.

‘You mean…?’

“I do indeed.’

Caputo licked his lips nervously.

‘Maybe I will have a cigarette after all/ he said.

Zen pushed the packet across the desk.

‘That explains what I am doing here/ he said. ‘It also explains my total lack of interest in any and all aspects of my job. This posting has been forced on me as the least of various evils on offer, but I do not feel the slightest degree of professional involvement or responsibility. I am sure that you and your colleagues are perfectly capable of carrying out your duties in a satisfactory manner, and my only wish is to leave you free to do so without interference or supervision. In short, just pretend I’m not here and carry on as you always have done. Do I make myself clear?’

Caputo flashed his shark’s smile.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The only thing that concerns me is that nothing occurs which might draw unwelcome attention to this detachment, and hence give my enemies an excuse to move me to the killing fields of Sicily or some God-forsaken hole up in the mountains. I’m sure I can count on your experience and discretion, Caputo, to ensure this does not happen.

As far as everything else is concerned, I leave matters entirely in your hands. In fact the less I know about it, the better pleased I shall be.’

Caputo nodded briskly and stood up.

‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

Zen was about to shake his head when a thought struck him.

‘Actually, I’d like a cappuccino scuro. Not too hot, lots of foam, no chocolate.’

He lay back, glancing at the clock on the wall. Less than five minutes later there was a knock at the door and a uniformed patrolman entered bearing a tray laden with a

glass of mineral water, a selection of freshly baked pastries and the cappuccino.

Every morning after that, an identical tray appeared a few minutes after Zen’s arrival at the office. For a while, that was all. Then, about three weeks after his conversation with Caputo, he came in one day to find a large cardboard box in the corner of the room. It proved to contain fifty cartons of Nazionali, 10,000 cigarettes in all. Zen removed three cartons and took them home, and stacked the rest in the empty drawers of his filing cabinet.

After that, things improved by leaps and bounds. He was greeted in respectful yet friendly fashion by every one he met, and his orders and requests were obeyed with alacrity, sometimes before he even realized that he had made them. He normally showed up at work each morning about eleven, unless he had something better to do,

leaving again shortly before lunch. Today he was entertaining Valeria at home, so he planned to make no more than a token appearance before stopping by the market to shop for whatever took his fancy.

Cars and vans and lorries surged sluggishly along the partitioned channel supposedly reserved for the trams, but in practice used by all and sundry as a relief route from the traffic-clogged Via Cristoforo Colombo. Once in a while, the city’s vigili would swoop down and start handing out fines, but such actions were sporadic and

tokenistic, repressive blitzes by a colonial power which knew that the struggle against the local population was unwinnable but could not afford to concede this openly.

In the dock area behind Zen, the white Tirrenia line steamer which had arrived from Sardinia that morning was tied up on one side of the passenger terminal. On the other lay a sleek grey warship flying a flag he found familiar but which he couldn’t identify. Farther back, in one of the outer docks, a huge aircraft carrier displayed the unmistakable emblem of the Stars and Stripes.

A dull ringing from the embedded rails announced the arrival of an elderly tram, swaying and nodding its way out of the tunnel burrowed under the Monte di Dio. Zen

folded up his newspaper and waited patiently while it trundled through the massed traffic towards him, its bell jingling plaintively. Ten minutes later, the tram deposited him in Piazza del Carmino, outside one of the main entrances to the port area. Zen walked in through the open gates, nodding perfunctorily to the armed guard,

who sketched a salute.

He crossed the concrete yard inside the gates and turned right towards the four-storey building which housed the detachment of the Polizia dello Stato responsible for law enforcement within the port area. Most of this enclave, as well as the neighbouring parts of the city centre, had been flattened by both Allied and German bombing

during the war, but the police station had miraculously been spared. Thanks to its restrained proportions, sturdy design and traditional materials, it stood out as a model of old-world grace and charm amid the brutalities of the surrounding architecture.

The size of the building belied the modest number of personnel deployed there, having been constructed at a time when the port was much more active than it was

now, after interminable labour disputes had diverted much trade south to Salerno. The ground and first floors were the only ones in official use, and the second used only as a dumping ground for forgotten files and broken furniture. As for the top storey, it appeared equally abandoned at this time of day, although once night had fallen it turned into one of the liveliest venues in the whole area, much frequented by sailors who for one reason or another did not have a pass permitting them to leave the port enclave. But Zen was careful to know nothing of this, nor about how the prostitutes who worked there got past the guards at the gate, and still less about the contraband goods and illegal substances which reputedly changed hands on the same premises.

He walked in through the open doorway, acknowledging the greetings of the three uniformed men lounging about in the hall, and climbed the stairs to his office on the first floor. The trio discreetly broke off their conversation until he had reached the landing, then resumed in a low tone. The murmur of their voices reached up through the cool, shadowy spaces of the stairwell like the distant drone of bees.

Tutti due fan ben la low parte

He had been in the office barely a minute when there was a knock at his door.

‘Come in!’ called Zen, surprised and pleased that his cappuccino had arrived so quickly.

But it was Giovan Battista Caputo who appeared. His manner was unusually subdued.

‘Sorry to disturb you, chief. Can I have a word?’

Zen waved his hand wearily

‘We had a spot of trouble last night/ Caputo announced, coming in and closing the door.

‘Mmm?’

‘We’ve got a couple of warships in at the moment. An American aircraft carrier and a Greek frigate. A group of sailors from the carrier spent the evening in that bar by the passenger terminal.’

Zen nodded. He had visited the place on a brief guided tour of the dock area with Caputo a couple of weeks earlier, the idea being to provide Zen with a bluffer’s guide to his new job. The bar in question, he had been given to understand, was operated by the same consortium responsible for the various phantom enterprises which operated from the top floor of the police station, and served among other things as a perfectly legal front allowing prospective clients to be screened before being granted admission to this inner sanctum. It was a poky place which nevertheless managed to provide a splash of life and colour amid the grandiose austerities of the stazione marittima.

The most striking feature of the place was a large neon sign in the window, reading, in English: mix drinks.

According to Caputo’s account of the incident the previous night, a group of American sailors had apparently taken this advice literally, downing a staggering variety and quantity of wines, beers, spirits and liqueurs before trooping off to explore the town. All went well until they ran into another party returning to the Greek frigate.

‘One of the Americans comes from a Greek family/ Caputo explained, ‘so he started trying to talk to them.

Only it seems his Greek isn’t all that good any more, or maybe he was too drunk. Anyway, whatever it was he said sounded insulting to the Greeks. A fight broke out, and the Americans got the best of it.’

‘Mmm/ repeated Zen, inspecting his fingernails.

‘When the Greeks got back to their ship, the word went round about what had happened and a bunch of them go out looking for revenge. They come across a man in

American uniform and start to push him around. Next thing they know he’s pulled a knife and stabbed two of them. One of our men was coming back from the bar,

where he’d been compiling a report on the earlier incident, and he immediately arrested the attacker.’

Zen yawned lengthily.

‘Really, Caputo, I hardly think you need to bother me with this sort of thing.’

“I wouldn’t have, sir, except for one thing. We informed the Americans that one of their crew was under arrest, and they sent a couple of officers over to identify him.

And here’s where it gets sticky. You see, it turns out this man we’ve arrested is not one of their men at all.’

A shrug from Zen.

‘So?’

Caputo sighed.

‘Look, chief, you made it very clear that you didn’t want anything happening here which might compromise you and provide an opening for your enemies in Rome, right?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Well, this is shaping up to become just that, I’m afraid.

One of the Greek sailors was badly injured, and he’s still in critical condition. The Greek consul has lodged an official complaint, and the Americans aren’t too happy that

we allowed someone masquerading as one of their personnel into a supposedly secure area. I’ve already fielded three calls from the Questore this morning…’

‘Damn! What did you tell him?’

“I said you were out of the office conducting further enquiries in person. But he didn’t sound pleased. I think you’d better get back to him as soon as possible.’

“I don’t even know the number.’

Caputo told him. Zen picked up the phone.

‘Stay here/ he told Caputo, who was heading discreetly for the door. “I may need back-up.’

Despite his alleged impatience to discuss the case, the police chief of the provincia di Napoli kept Zen waiting on the line for over ten minutes before deigning to speak to him.

When he did, however, he left Zen in no doubt that Caputo had not exaggerated the gravity or urgency of the situation.

“I understand that you’re new to the city/ the Questore remarked in a quiet, suave voice more effective than any hectoring. ‘We naturally have to make allowances for that. I remember wondering at the time whether it was a wise appointment. Naples is a unique city, and one which in many ways is difficult if not impossible for an outsider to understand.’

Zen sat there gripping the receiver tightly and wishing that he had not given up smoking.

‘But then I told myself that this was after all simply a matter of policing the port area, a relatively minor and routine operation. I assumed that a man of your apparent experience would be able to handle it, even allowing for your lack of local knowledge. But within a few months of your arrival here we now have all the ingredients of a

major international incident in the making, a scenario which makes the city look like some Third World hellhole where bands of drunken sailors and local thugs have

it out with knives among the wharves. We’ve spent a lot of time and money trying to upgrade the image of Naples in the world, and our efforts were crowned with the gj conference. Now your slackness and incompetence threatens to bring all that work to naught!’

‘It’s impossible for my men to be everywhere/ Zen protested feebly.

‘This affray occurred less than fifteen metres from the main passenger terminal/ said the Questore. ‘If you can’t police that area properly, what can you do? Anyway, it’s too late to worry about that now. The essential thing is to bring this investigation to a suitable conclusion in the shortest possible time, a conclusion which will satisfy and reassure all the interested parties - who, I need hardly remind you, include two of our principal NATO allies. What progress have you made?’