Present Day Rialto, Venice Not many applicants make it into the Carabinieri's Corazzieri, the elite commando group that provides the honour guard for Italy's president. Aside from the stringent military requirements, recruits must be taller than 190 cm – six foot three. It's a big ask for most Italian males. Umberto Castelli was one of the select few to have qualified with flying colours.
Twenty years on, his exceptional qualities have earned him a place as the head of an undercover unit respected throughout the country.
Umberto goes to extremes to protect his identity, and that includes never setting foot inside a Carabinieri building. All his business is conducted strictly off-site.
Bearded and dressed more like a busker than a major, he meets Vito Carvalho in a coffee shop off the Rialto. Close in age and bonded by mutual respect, the two men have become close friends.
The big busker asks for double espressos, then folds his legs beneath a table. 'How's Maria?'
It's the question everyone who cares always asks Carvalho. 'Up and down,' comes the answer. 'Physically, there's no deterioration. The MS even seems a bit better. But at the moment she's depressed.'
'I'm sorry to hear it.'
'Grazie. We have a holiday coming up soon. That will brighten her mood.'
'Good. I hope so.' Castelli waits for a young waiter in a white apron to set down the steaming black coffees and leave, then he pulls open a plastic supermarket bag. Inside is a confidential file. 'I wanted to talk to you about Antonio Pavarotti.'
Vito crosses himself. 'God bless. You know his cousin is one of my lieutenants?'
'Morassi, right? How's she taken it?'
'She's strong. She's working through the grief.' Vito's eyes look to the heavens. 'But at some point it's going to drown her as if a dam's given way.'
Castelli rubs his beard. 'I got the full report last night. Looks like we're talking about murder, not an accident.'
Vito frowns. 'Murder? The engineers called in after the salvage was done said it was most likely a gas explosion. The cooker in the galley.'
'That's what they thought.' Castelli opens the manila file and passes it over. 'The labs found traces of C-4.'
Vito feels as though someone's painting his spine with ice. 'Plastic explosive – but how? Where?'
'Not quite sure. There wasn't much of the boat left. On the engine, we think. The techies found traces of plasticiser and binder on the block.'
Vito plays with his coffee cup. 'Clever. On detonation the explosive is converted into compressed gas. Whoever set it might have thought this would mislead an investigation team.'
'They would have got away with it, only the shockwave was far too intense to have been produced by a regular gas cylinder. It tore most of the boat into tiny fragments.'
Vito sees flashes of Antonio at the helm. Flashes of the kid's parents when he broke the news to them. Flashes of Valentina in his office – too proud and too brave to break down and cry in front of him. 'I never expected this. What the hell was he working on? Some Mafia or Camorra job?'
Castelli shakes his head. 'No, not at all. Or at least, we didn't think there were mob connections.' He scans the room before he continues. 'It was a low-level undercover job. A fishing expedition. You've heard of the commune on Isola Mario?'
Vito rocks his head hesitantly.
'It's run by the billionaire Mario Fabianelli.'
Vito half remembers: 'The internet whiz-kid – made a fortune and then stuck most of it up his nose?'
'That's the one.'
'The island's named after him, isn't it?'
'It is. Must be nice to be so rich you can afford an island. Anyway, too much coke must have gone to his head, because for the past year he's turned it into a free-love commune he calls Heaven – though actually he doesn't spell it the normal way. It's alphanumeric – the Es are replaced by 3s and there's no A.'
Vito wrinkles up his face in confusion.
'H-3-V-3-N. Think of U2 – it's like he's trying to create a brand. The place even has its own website selling poems, paintings, pottery and jewellery made by the junk-heads.'
Vito wipes coffee from his lips with a paper napkin. 'So, this is where Antonio was working? Digging around the hippies to see what drugs they were using on Mario's Fantasy Island?'
Castelli nods. 'We had a tip that there was a lot of gear there. Shipments of the stuff. Not just hash, but good quantities of E, maybe coke and even some H. Given the abuse record of the owner, we thought it worth a prowl. I specifically asked for Antonio because he'd done so well on the undercover job at the hospital. He was a bright boy.'
'Was. He certainly was.' Vito drops his head. 'Had he found anything?'
'No. At least, not that he'd had a chance to report in.' They both fall silent for a minute. Vito knows what's on his colleague's mind – Valentina. Getting over a fatal accident takes a long time. Getting over murder takes a lifetime. 'I'd best go and tell her,' he says as he rises from his seat.
Castelli doesn't say anything, just pats him on the arm as he walks past.