The response, when it finally came, was quiet and unhurried, as though rebuking Zen’s panicky urgency.
‘My advisers inform me that you uttered a threat against me. I trust this is just another of the innumerable mistakes and gross miscalculations of which they’ve been guilty.’
Christ, it was the man himself! Things must indeed have come to a pretty pass at Palazzo Sisti if l’onorevole was reduced to making his own phone calls.
‘Nothing could be further from the truth!’ Zen found himself saying in an obsequious tone. ‘I wouldn’t dream of presuming to…’
‘Maybe not, but there are plenty who would. Men I’ve worked for and with this past quarter century! Now they deny they know me. Now they smite me on the cheek, spit in my face and hand me over, bound and gagged, to my enemies!’
‘The only reason I am calling is…’
‘They may think I’m dead and buried, but they’ll see! When they least expect it I shall burst forth from the tomb and sit in judgement on those who have presumed to judge me.’
Having achieved this peroration, l’onorevole fell silent.
‘Hello?’ ventured Zen hesitantly.
‘I’m still here. Despite everything.’
‘When we met at Palazzo Sisti, onorevole, at the conclusion of the Burolo affair, you were kind enough to intimate that if I ever needed a favour then I should contact you. That is the only reason I have been bold enough to do so.’
The unctuous smarminess of his voice left Zen wanting to rinse his mouth out, but decades of servility could not be erased in a moment.
‘What do you want?’ l’onorevole demanded. ‘There’s a limit to what I can accomplish these days, but…’
Zen paused.
‘I take it I may speak openly?’
‘Oh, please! You take me for a fool? That’s why I am calling you. Our tracer identified the number from which you rang earlier. I’m speaking from a secure line. But I haven’t got all day, Zen. For the second time, what do you want?’
The square was still deserted, but Zen brought the receiver close to his mouth and lowered his voice.
‘It’s question of access to a police file, onorevole.’
There was a brief silence.
‘I’d have thought that was one of the few areas in which you were better qualified to act than I.’
‘This particular file has been sealed.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s one of the things I want to find out. It concerns the disappearance of an American called Ivan Durridge.’
There was a long silence. Zen eyed the circling flock of plastic flakes and said nothing.
‘I seem to recall the affair vaguely,’ l’onorevole said at last. ‘What is your interest in it?’
Zen knew better than to try and conceal the truth from this man.
‘Private enterprise,’ he replied promptly. ‘I’ve been retained by the family to look into it, but first of all I need to know why the case was closed. I can’t afford to step on anyone’s toes.’
There was a dry laugh the other end.
‘Neither can I.’
Another silence.
‘I’ll have to see what other interests are involved,’ the voice replied at length. ‘I’ll ask around. Assuming I get a nihil obstat from my sources, how do you want the material delivered?’
Zen caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked round. A young man in overalls passed by carrying four wooden chairs, their legs interlocked, on his shoulders.
‘I’ll get in touch later today and leave details with your staff. Thank you very much for granting me this much of your valuable time, onorevole. I can’t tell you how I appreciate it.’
At the other end there was nothing but the static-corroded silence, but it was some time before Zen replaced the receiver and turned away.
Back in the osteria, Tommaso was sitting alone at a table facing the door. He stood up and waved as Zen came in, then called to the barman to bring a flask of wine.
‘I was beginning to think I’d imagined the whole thing,’ he exclaimed, clasping Zen’s shoulder and arm as though to prove that it was not in fact an apparition. ‘How long has it been now? And then not even to let me know you’re here! Honestly, Aurelio, I’m offended.’
‘I only arrived this morning, Tommaso. And I was just about to contact you, as it happens.’
He pinched his friend’s cheek and gave one of his rare unconstrained smiles. Tommaso Saoner looked exactly the same as he had for as long as Zen could remember: the perpetual dark stubble, the stolid, graceless features, the glasses with rectangular lenses and thick black rims through which he peered out at the world as though through a television set.
‘Your health, Aurelio!’ cried Tommaso, pouring their wine.
‘And yours.’
They drained off their glasses.
‘Where’s your companion?’ asked Zen.
Tommaso’s expression grew serious.
‘Ferdinando? He had to go.’
‘Ferdinando Dal Maschio?’
Tommaso beamed in delight.
‘You’ve heard of him? The movement is growing in numbers and importance every day, of course, but I had no idea that they were talking about us in Rome already!’
Zen produced his cigarettes, then looked round guiltily.
‘Is it all right to smoke here?’