Michael Dibdin: Cosi Fan Tutti

Christ almighty, what did he use for crop-spray? Cyanide?

Or was the problem with illegal additives in the alcohol, as with the tainted wine scandals that were such a regular feature of Italian life?

Or was the problem with him? Was he blocking out some truth too horrible for remembrance, some news unfit to be imprinted? Only a glass and a half! A likely story. He must have drained the entire bottle, and then raided the remaining stocks in the cupboard like those American sailors who had gone to mix drinks, pouring the stuff down his throat as though there were no tomorrow, or rather to obliterate the possibility of one.

Nevertheless, it had arrived, his tomorrow. And just when he had consoled himself in the traditional way that things could not get any worse, in the traditional way they did. Back in the distant past, maybe a couple of seconds earlier, it had seemed absolutely impossible to improve on what had gone before, yet it now turned out that there wasn't the slightest problem about this.

As with all good dramatic effects, things got better before they got worse. The appalling noise died away to almost nothing, the flashing slivers of light ceased, the terrifying shudders subsided to a mild and constant vibration. Only the stink and foul taste remained, and even they were by now coming to seem familiar and tolerable. And of course it was then, when his defences were down and he was starting to think that maybe things weren't so bad after all, that all hell broke loose.

Broke in, rather — not that finicky distinctions of this kind were uppermost in his mind as the surface beneath him suddenly reared up with astonishing rapidity, tilting at an alarming and apparently impossible angle which nevertheless turned out to make perfectly good sense as he started to rollback, hands helplessly outstretched. His cramped confinement receded as the darkness opened up to receive him, one item among many falling in purposeful disorder. Even the terminal impact, when it finally came, was mercifully soft.

Dove son? 'Pronto?'

'Dottore, is that you?'

'Is what me?'

'You're alive?'

Tarn?'

Pause.

'Am I speaking to Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen of the Polizia dello Stato, serial number 4723 stroke vz stroke 798?'

'Present and correct, sir!'

'Identify your present whereabouts.'

'Unknown.'

'Describe same.'

'A pit of some kind. Dark, silent. Abundance of foul smelling and slimy materials all around.'

He took out his cigarette lighter, producing a feeble, flickering flame.

'Proximity of one, possibly more, human corpses.'

'Do not break this connection! Repeat, do not break this connection. How long will your mobile phone go on functioning?'

'The battery indicator light is flashing. Five, possibly ten minutes operational time remaining.'

'Jesus Christ! I don't think we can trace you in time.

Can you get out yourself?'

'Negative.'

'Is there anything you can do or tell me to indicate your position?'

'Negative. But don't worry, I still have Pasquale's box.'

'Sorry?' the miracles work

Mm mi fate piufare tristefigura! of the dog, you know.'

It was almost four in the morning when they finally found him. By then the power pack of his mobile phone had long since failed, but one of the bullets fired by Gesualdo into the cab of the stolen garbage truck had pierced the oil line and the resulting trail of drops led the investigators step by step into the heart of the labyrinth to the deep pit where Aurelio Zen was lying on a mound of garbage next to a hideously mutilated cadaver, as peaceful as a child in bed with his bear. He looked up, blinking in the glare of torches and spotlights.

'There he is!' yelled a voice.

'And isn't that Attilio Abate?'

'No, there's Abate over there. That's one of Vallifuoco's henchmen, what's his name…?'

'Marotta. And there's Don Ermanno himself!'

'Get the chief over here! This is going to be huge.'

Rope ladders were lowered and men clambered down.

Zen sat up, feeling distinctly under-dressed for the occasion.

Almost everyone else seemed to be wearing uniform and carrying guns. Not only was he unarmed and in civilian clothes, but he seemed to have a large pool of dried vomit on his shirt and trousers.

Much to his surprise, the intruders seemed solicitous rather than critical. Two hefty types in battledress lifted him on to a stretcher which was then hoisted to the rim of the pit in a series of fits and starts reminiscent of the elevator at the Squillace apartment building. One of the few persons in plain clothes, apparently a doctor, examined him physically and then gave him a little quiz. This was quite fun, involving questions about his name, address, age, background, as well as a few general-knowledge teasers: what year it was, the name of the current prime minister, the capital of Emilia-Romagna, the numbers and playing positions of the Juventus team, Moana Pozzi's vital statistics, the percentage of Trebbiano grapes permissible in Chianti Classico, and so on. He was able to answer all of these correctly — except of course for the second, which had been deliberately inserted as a trick question to trap malingerers.

Once Zen's mental competence had been established, he was hurried into the presence of a compact, sturdily suited man wearing dark glasses and a lethal smile who appeared to be directing the proceedings.

'This whole operation must be planned down to the last detail!' he was telling his clustered subordinates.

'Nothing must be left to chance. This is our great chance to smash these people once and for all. I want everything to go like clockwork. Understand?'

A chorus of dedicated assent greeted this rhetorical question.

Tiero? You handle the TV people. We're talking all three RAI channels, naturally, but also the leading independents and cable providers. Pack the room, lots of confusion, a sense of breaking news. I want jagged conflictual lighting, a mass of urgent but chaotic motion, then a segue into the strong, firm presentation from the podium restoring a sense of order and control. Mario, you handle the print media. Pack them in as extras for the TV coverage, get that quality of grainy actuality. Then line up the Corriere, Stampa and Repubblica for the off-air, in-depth, back story pitch.'

'What about the Mattino, dottoreV Even through his shades, the suited man's stare was perceptibly cutting.

'Mario, I assumed it was clear that we were talking national here.'

'Right, chief. Of course.'

'Keep the locals in the picture, but at a distance. They'll be only too glad to pick up the scraps from the table. These are not some small-time provincial gangsters we're talking about here. This is a world-class event of national and even international proportions, and I want it treated with the proper respect, God damn it!'

'You've got it, chief.'

'All right, get to work.'

The suited man turned his blank regard towards Zen.

'Now then, dottore, let's discuss what we're going to tell them. After that we'll get you showered, shaved and suited up. Or maybe we should go for the haggard, backfrom-the-brink look. What do you think? There's a lot riding on this, for both of us. Let's not screw it up.'

'Are you saying that this operation began even before the communication from the group calling itself Strade Pulite was made public?'

The question came from a man in the first row, identified on his name tag as a reporter for the International Herald Tribune, but in fact an aide who had been planted among the audience to 'facilitate efficient and expeditious coverage of this historically significant event'.

The Questore, whose eyes were no less dark and obscure than the glasses he had worn earlier, nodded briefly.