Michael Dibdin - Vendetta

He reached for the phone and dialled the number Tania had given him that morning, to cancel their date, but there was no reply. By now it was ten to seven, and there was no sign of the taxi he had ordered, so he rang to complain.

To his dismay, the dispatcher not only disclaimed all knowledge of his previous call but even hinted that Zen had invented it in order to jump the forty-five minute waiting period that now existed. After a br,'ef acrimonious exchange Zen slammed down the receiver and headed for the door. The evening was fine and it was not too far to walk. Even if he didn't manage to pick up a taxi on the way he would arrive no more than fashionably late.

He raced down the stairs two at a time and out on to the street, trying to work out how best to phrase his petition without making it look as though he took Palazzo Sisti's underworld connections for granted. So preoccupied was he that he didn't notice the unmarked grey delivery van that was now double-parked further down the street, nor the dark figure that slipped out of a doorway near by and began to follow him.

His route was the same as he and Tania had taken a week earlier: past the law courts, across the river and south through Piazza Navona. He strode rapidly along, oblivious to the stares he was attracting from passers-by curious about this image of sartorial rectitude hoofing it through their vulgar streets like Cinderella going home from the ball.

When he reached the small piazza facing the grimy baroque church of Sant'Andrea della Valle, he was halted for some time by the traffic on Corso Vittorio Emanuele. A woman getting out of a car parked by the fountain shouted something and pointed. Zen turned to find a slight, swarthy man brandishing a pistol at him.

'You have disgraced my marriage bed and…'

He paused, breathless with the effort of running to keep up with Zen.

'… and brought dishonour on my house! For this you shall pay, as my name is Mauro Bevilacqua!'

So this is the way it's going to end, thought Zen. He almost laughed to think he had survived the worst a Vasco Spadola could do, only to fall victim to the ravings of a jealous bank clerk.

'You thought you had it all worked out, you two, didn't you?' Bevilacqua sneered. 'You thought you could have fun and games at my expense and get away scot-free. Well let me tell you…'

Tyres squealed as the grey van slewed to a halt by the neat Fascist office block at the other side of the piazza.

Men in grey overalls bearing the word POLIZIA in fluorescent yellow leapt out, clutching submachine guns.

'Don't move!' boomed a harshly amplified voice. 'Drop your weapon!'

Mauro Bevilacqua looked about him in utter bewilderment. He turned to face the van, the pistol still in his hand.

A volley of shots rang out. There was a sound of breaking glass and a woman's scream.

'For Christ's sake drop the fucking thing before they kill us all!' Zen hissed.

The pistol clattered to the cobblestones.

'It's only a replica,' Bevilacqua muttered.

The woman who had shouted to Zen stood looking with a shocked expression at her car, whose windscreen was now crazed and punctured by bullet holes. Two of the men in grey overalls threw Bevilacqua against the side of the car, arms on the roof, and searched him roughly. Another walked up to Zen and saluted.

'Ispettore Ligato, NOCS Unit 4z! I trust you're unharmed, dottore? Sorry about losing contact this afternoon. You were a bit too quick for us at the lights. Still, no harm done.

We were here when it counted.'

He walked over to Bevilacqua, who was now lying face down on the cobblestones, his arms tightly handcuffed behind his back. Ligato gave him an exploratory kick in the ribs.

'As for you, you bastard, you can count yourself lucky you're still alive!'

Zen laid a restraining hand on the official's shoulder.

'Don't be too hard on him,' he said. 'His wife's just left him.'

Palazzo Sisti was lit up and humming like the powerstation it was. Zen walked buoyantly across the courtyard, passing a queue of limousines waiting to discharge their illustrious passengers. Things were looking up, he thought. At this rate, he might be able to keep his date with Tania after all. But first there was the reception to be got through.

The minuscule porter, beside himself with the importance of the occasion, was haranguing a chauffeur who was trying to park in a space reserved for some party dignitary.

Zen slipped past him and climbed the stairs. At the top, he encountered a familiar ape-like figure unconvincingly got up in a footman's apparel.

'Good evening, Lino.'

The bodyguard scowled at Zen. 'That way,' he said, jerking his tnumb.

'This way?' Zen inquired brightly.

Lino's scowl intensified. 'Don't push me too far!' he warned.

'Sorry, too late. Someone has already threatened to kill me this evening. In fact there's a waiting list, I'm afraid. I could pencil you in for some time next month.'

'You're crazy,' muttered Lino.

Zen walked past a mutilated classical torso which revived memories of a particularly nasty murder case he had once been involved in. A pair of rosewood doors opened into a series of salons whose modest dimensions and exquisite decoration reflected the tone of the palace as a whole. The rooms were packed with people. Those nearest the door scanned Zen's features briefly, then turned away. But though they did not recognize him, he saw many faces familiar from the television and newspapers. As he hovered on the fringes of the gathering, unable to find an opening, Zen found himself reminded oddly of the village bar in Sardinia. If the contrasts were obvious, so were the similarities. He couldn't get a drink here either, for one thing, the white-jacketed waiters always passing by just out of his reach, ignoring his signals. But more important, here too he was an intruder, a gate-crasher at a private club. These people were constant presences in each other's lives, meeting regularly at functions such as this, not to mention other more significant reunions. Nothing any of them did or said could be indifferen't to the others. They were a family, a tribe to which Zen did not belong. They had felt obliged to invite the man who did their dirty work for them, but in fact his presence was an unwelcome embarrassment, to himself and everyone else.

To Zen's dismay, the first familiar face he saw was that of Vincenzo Fabri, resplendent in an aerodynamically styled outfit that made Zen's look as though it had been rented from a fancy-dress agency. Fabri approached with a smile that boded no good.

'I didn't know you'd be here, Zen.'

'Life's full of surprises.'

'Isn't it just?'

Fabri beckoned him closer with a crooked finger.

'Guess what?'

Zen gazed at him bleakly.

'I've made Questore!' Fabri crowed in a triumphant whisper.

He extended the forefinger of his right hand and poked Zen in the chest.

'To be fair, I suppose you should take some of the credit, as you said this morning. But it's results that count in the end, isn't it? Bari or Ferrara seem the most likely prospects at the moment, unless I decide to take a few months' leave and wait for something better to come up. They say Pacini won't last much longer in Venice. Now there's a thought, eh? Well, I must circulate. See you at the Ministry. I'll be in to clear my desk.'

Zen knew he had to leave quickly, before he said or did something unforgivable. As he pushed through the crowd, he felt a grip on his arm.

'Wherever are you going in such a hurry, dottore? I was just about to, ah… that's to say, I was on the point of, ah, bringing your presence to the attention of someone who has taken a very close, very personal interest in the events of the past few days.'

The young secretary steered Zen towards a distinguished-looking figure in his mid-sixties who was holding court in the centre of the room, where the throng was thickest. Zen recognized him immediately.