Dominique Manotti - Escape

‘I don’t believe your story. What about the other two dead, the carabiniere and the security guard?’

‘I’m not sure about them. They might have been shot to bump up the death toll.’

‘I still don’t believe it.’

‘Why not? Don’t you believe our secret service is capable of such murders? How many victims were there in the massacres they organised in league with the far right? Do you think that bothered them in the least?’

‘Setting off a bomb and massacring unknown civilians isn’t quite the same thing as murdering its own men on an official assignment in cold blood. The political consequences can be much more serious.’

‘Really? Wake up, Roberto. Two senior carabinieri have just stood trial for the Peteano attack. You remember the Peteano attack? A car bomb blew up a carabinieri bus, three carabinieri dead. That was in 1972, the carabinieri know who planted the bomb as they have concrete evidence. And they cover it up. Until the bomber, an Ordine Nuovo activist, gives himself up, just over three years ago. Well? Isn’t that somewhat similar to what I’m saying here?’

‘That’s the point. Exactly. If they’re embroiled in this business, it’s highly unlikely that they’d risk the same tactic just when the trial’s taking place.’

‘So let’s assume that Carlo shot in self-defence when he realised he’d fallen into a trap.’

‘Remember, you’re always saying that Carlo never used guns, which, by the way, I don’t necessarily agree with. More seriously still: how do you explain Bonamico’s reappearance as prosecution witness against Filippo? In your scenario, he absolutely has to disappear. He changes his name and he disappears.’

‘On that point you’re right, it’s the fly in the ointment, and I’ve asked myself the same question. I’d like to know when exactly he changed his name. That would be helpful. To explain his comeback, I wondered whether it might be poor coordination on the part of rival departments. But that’s not entirely convincing. And I have a better suggestion. Bonamico was at the scene of the robbery because he was with Carlo, he planned the job with him. Do you follow me? He was seen in the Tazza d’Oro by a witness, who recognised him. You don’t forget a mug like that. For example someone who knew him in Brescia at the time of the 1974 bombing, and who knew of his past as a stooge of the neo-fascists. Brescia isn’t that far from Milan so it’s not out of the question. As I speak, I’m wondering whether this witness too might have a connection with the bank in Via Del Battifolle? A former employee of the Tomasino family, or something. At the time, he’s not particularly surprised, but next day after the hold-up, with photos all over the papers, the witness realises that the man he saw with Bonamico in La Tazza d’Oro is the former Red Brigadist. The time of the robbery also fits, and our man does his duty as a citizen and rushes off to tell all to the cops. The cops do nothing, but hush up his testimony. Then comes Filippo’s book and the press campaign around him sparked off by Prosecutor Sebastiani, who is definitely not aware of the full picture. Maybe the witness wakes up or something else happens that we don’t know about. In any case, by coming forward to testify, Daniele explains his presence in La Tazza d’Oro during the hour prior to the hold-up. He does so without anyone being able to establish a link between him and Carlo, and reinforces the credibility of Filippo’s novel, something which suits the police very well.’

‘Too complicated.’

‘I can’t come up with anything better. And if I were Bonamico, complicated or not, I’d be trying to save my skin.’

‘When you speak to the League of Human Rights, the lawyers and Filippo, I advise you to stick to the proven facts. The surprise witness is a former fellow inmate of Carlo’s under an alias. That’s already enough to demolish the official version. As for the rest, I suggest you store it up for the day when you decide to write a novel. In my opinion, you’re talented and you’ve got a subject. When are you seeing Filippo? We need to move fast now.’

‘Cristina will be back at work tomorrow. I’ll ask her to set up a meeting. She has a better chance of persuading him to come than I do.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

27 July 1988

Cristina arrives back from New York, where she has spent her holiday with her son, late in the afternoon. She is worn out by the heat, the flight and jet lag, and her spirits are low. She is impatient to get home and settle in. A nice shower, a big glass of fresh water with a slice of lemon, then bed, perhaps with a good novel. Her key turns in the lock, she puts down her suitcase, switches on the light and freezes. The big book on Siena lies open on the coffee table, at the double-page spread on the condottiere . Her heart beats faster. For the first time the painting appears as a threat, a declaration of war. Next to it stands the bottle of brandy and a half-filled glass. Evidently someone has been in her apartment. Fear. Maybe still there. Fear. Empty building. Fear. Mounting fear. Stop. Right now .

She shakes herself like a wet dog, marches over to the window and opens the blind. She takes a few steps on to the veranda, where the sun still shines in pools, and from the nearby woods there comes a whiff of fresh air: a familiar and reassuring universe. She calms down and goes back inside, inspecting every room meticulously. She picks up the hat from the dressing room floor and replaces it on its stand. She opens all the cupboards. In the bathroom, she tidies the dressing table and notices that the bottle of Mitsouko by Guerlain is missing. Strange. The bedroom seems to have been spared by the visitor.

She returns to the living room, removes the glass from the coffee table, stale: what a waste. Closes the book, relieved to see the menacing warrior disappear. One fresco that she’ll never look at in the same way again. Then she picks up the bottle and pours herself a full glass of brandy, more effective on this occasion than water with lemon, and slumps into an armchair. Who has been in her apartment? An immediate certainty: Filippo. Why is she so sure? A thought catches her unawares: His smell is in this room … Because I know his smell? Have I memorised it? Nonsense. It’s simpler than that. I reckon it’s Filippo because I know the guy is perfectly capable of forcing my lock — child’s play for him. He’s a petty crook, and possibly even a killer. Simpler still: because he’s an outsider to my world, because I don’t understand him, because I toyed with him yet failed to seduce him. I have a burning memory of the way he thrust my hand away when I placed it on his at the Café Pouchkine. A humiliation. Because his running away like that was already an assault. Because he’s there, close by, on the other side of the wall, and because that proximity is beginning to feel like a permanent threat of invasion. He’s signalling that he can enter my home when he pleases, as he pleases. He is master of my space, and so also of my mental space. I won’t live under this threat. First of all, I have to put myself out of his reach. Then, I’ll see .

Cristina stands up, grabs her suitcase still standing by the front door as if waiting for her, and leaves her apartment. She’ll spend this first night back in Paris at a hotel.

28 July, Paris

Agences Françaises dispatch

Adriano Sofri, Giorgio Pietrostefani and Ovidio Bompressi, two former leaders and an activist from the Italian ultra-left organisation Lotta Continua, which dissolved in 1976, were arrested in their homes at dawn this morning, and taken to various barracks in Milan. The two leaders are accused of ordering the activist to carry out the assassination of Italian state police official Luigi Calabresi in Milan in 1972.