Diego Marani - God's Dog

‘Wait…’ said Salazar. The woman paused on the threshold.

‘I wanted to thank you. I think you’ve saved my life…’

‘It’s nothing…’ she said, embarrassed; then she looked away and went out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Trains full of pilgrims were arriving at Stazione Termini one after the other. Hundreds of monks and nuns were thronging the platforms and wandering off into the station entrance. Men and women of every conceivable hue were calling to each other in a Babel of tongues, waving the flags of their various countries and forming orderly lines, their vast array of uniforms and insignia attesting to the Church’s awesome power. Salazar looked like a beggar in his tattered track suit and trainers. He wandered around the station in search of an internet point. It had taken him several hours to free himself, patiently working the bicycle chain against the metal door of the lavatory; but the hard part had been getting out of the basement. Luckily he had heard voices on the other side of the wall, and had called out. He had been heard by an electrician who’d come down into the basement to do some repairs, who had told the watchman, who had come down with the spare key. Salazar told him that he’d recently rented the storeroom and locked himself in by mistake, then made himself scarce, not leaving the man time to wonder at his stupidity. At the bus station he had at last seen an Italcom sign, and gone in. He hadn’t a penny on him, so was obliged to wait until someone went off leaving some credit on the computer. An Indian seminarist had grasped his predicament, possibly having been in the same position himself, and let him take his place. There were still twenty minutes left on the phonecard. The first thing Salazar did was to check his e-mails. He found a message from Guntur.

‘Dear Domingo,

I got your message just today because I spent all yesterday in a seminary out of town. All’s well here, no news. Or rather, to tell the truth, I feel slightly worried: I have the feeling I’m being watched. Yesterday I thought I saw the flash of cameras from the other side of the glass, though it might just have been a sailor from one of the barges taking a photo of the quay for a souvenir. But then I have another worry; I must be overdoing things. I was afraid that Django might start talking in front of Henk, the keeper who comes to feed him and clean his cage. Then I realised that Henk probably wouldn’t understand that the chimp was doing anything other than grunting. Tomorrow I’m expecting this Aren De Smet from Leyden. Meanwhile, I carry on encouraging Django with recordings of voices in Swahili and other exercises. I’m eager to get on with my research, but I need time to perfect certain experiments, and it’s complicated doing all this in secret. It would be good to be able to talk to colleagues, and consult scientific journals. But I’m staking my all on this neurolinguist, and I’m expecting material from America which might prove decisive. How are you getting on in Rome? I don’t suppose that you can tell me much about your mission. I’d thought of asking for a visa and coming to visit you in May, if you’re not back by then, that is. It would be good to see you here when the first new catch of herring of the year arrives; we could go to supper again with my Friesian friend. Apparently his place has become all the rage with yuppies and intellectuals and other toffs. But I discovered it when it was just a rough-and-ready bar, with paper tablecloths and sawdust on the floor. I wonder if Rik still gets drunk now that his place is in the good restaurant guide!

My warmest greetings, Guntur.’

The message was four days old. Salazar deleted it. All communication with Guntur now had to cease; he might get him into trouble, and put someone on his own trail. By now his e-mails would certainly be being checked. But was Guntur really being watched? If they’d got their hands on him, they would certainly also have located Guntur, whose experiments would upset a lot of people. Salazar feared for his friend; he would have liked to put him on his guard. Then another alarming thought struck him. He googled Guntur Pertiwi, University of Amsterdam. What came up was a photograph of a burned-out ruin on the Nieuwe Diep.

‘On Tuesday evening, during the storm which hit the whole north Dutch coast, causing flooding and serious damage, a fire broke out in the Amsterdam university complex, probably caused by the collapse of a high-tension pylon. The building which houses the biological research laboratory run by Professor Guntur Pertiwi and the adjacent greenhouse were completely destroyed. The fire brigade was on the spot within minutes, but a high wind prevented them from bringing the flames under control. Their situation was made more difficult by the nearby presence of reservoirs containing diesel for the river barges which moor at the adjacent quay. During the night the fire also spread to this same quay, destroying a barge and causing the reservoirs to explode. Only at first light were the firemen able to approach the quay and train seawater on to the building, which was by now a mere burnt-out hull. There do not seem to have been any victims on the barge, which was carrying sand and gravel. However, while work was going on to make the place safe, the charred body of a man was found at the foot of the embankment, together with that of a monkey. The body has not yet been identified, but is presumed to be that of Professor Pertiwi. The monkey is undoubtedly to be identified as the chimpanzee Django, originally from the Kibale Nature Reserve in Kenya, on whom Professor Pertiwi was conducting various experiments. There do not seem to be any other victims. The police have opened enquiries into the cause of the fire.’

The fair-haired man rolled up the shutters, picked up the newspapers and went back into the bar. The coffee-machine was already on. He poured some coffee into the filter-paper, put it in place and pressed the switch; what he wanted was the smell of coffee. He spread the newspaper out over the counter and put his cup on it. Every so often he glanced out into the street, unable to resist the urge to check that nothing unusual was happening. He saw the dustcart, the wholesaler who served the greengrocer, the night-watchman from the nearby lawyer’s office getting on his scooter, the seven o’clock bus. Between the colourfully-packaged Easter eggs he could also see the ramparts of the Vatican bristling with white and yellow flags. Then he felt his mobile buzzing in his pocket; he pulled it out and snapped it open. The number was that of a public phone box.

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes. Who’s speaking?’

‘It’s me, Ivan.’

‘Ivan! Where are you?’

‘Here in Rome. I’ve just arrived.’

‘Are you completely mad? They’re still after you here!’

‘I know. And I’m still after them. Zladek Novak is on the hit list.’

‘Ivan, do you realise what’s going on?’

‘Marta has told me everything. Your madcap plans will cause utter bedlam, and I’ll take advantage of it to murder that swine.’

‘Leave it to us. He’ll be made mincemeat of along with Benedict XVIII…’

‘No, he might not go up on to the podium and escape the explosion. And anyway, I want to kill him with my own hands. I want to see the terror in that one eye when he sees me pointing a pistol at his head.’

The fair-haired man sat bolt-upright in his chair. He looked out of the window at the passers-by, hoping they didn’t include an imminent customer.

‘Do the others know you’re here?’ he asked, raising his hand and putting it on the coffee-machine.

‘Only you and Marta. The fewer the better.’

‘You do realise that you might be putting a spanner in the entire works?’

‘I shan’t be interfering with your plans. You go ahead. But I need somewhere for tonight. Only tonight. By tomorrow it will all be over.’ The fair-haired man pulled a face.