Read Online Costa 08 - City of Fear by David Hewson - Free Book Online
Authors: David Hewson
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Now he has money, friends in the media, so many politicians in his grasp.…”
Costa remained silent.
“I’m sorry,” Sordi apologized. “I should not say such things to a police officer, for whom politics have no interest. But understand this …” He nodded back toward the palace. “You and your colleagues are the only ones with any sense of independence to pass through that room today. The rest, the foreigners, Palombo—they’re Campagnolo’s. It’s only understandable. I can take control for the duration of this emergency, no longer. They will have to deal with him when he has his hands on the reins of state once more. I don’t blame them for taking sides, any more than I would you, if you felt the same way.”
“I detest the man,” Costa said without thinking. “He’s made Italy a laughing stock.”
Sordi glanced at the Quirinale again and raised his eyebrows. “Careful, Nic. Even gardens may have ears. I take tea here, you know. Every evening. A habit I learned from a friend in London. Earl Grey tea, made with good Calabrian bergamot, and a very special kind of English cookie of which I’m fond. First sip when
Il Torrino
chimes six-thirty, at which point I pinch myself and continue to try to understand why the son of a laborer from Testaccio is sitting here, at the summit of the
caput mundi
. Old men live by habits, you know. It’s all we have left. You should indulge me with a visit sometime.”
Costa looked around at the manicured gardens, empty save for a workman tending to some shrubs near the northern wall. The Quirinale was a showcase for the state. The real work of government took place elsewhere, leaving the palace to Sordi and his guards.
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why couldn’t you work with him, instead of seizing control?”
“I was within my rights.…”
“I don’t doubt that, sir. But why?”
“For pity’s sake, call me Dario. I spent the first third of my life a communist and the remainder a socialist. These formalities are enough to send a man insane. Not from you, of all people, please, Nic.”
“I don’t understand.”
The president couldn’t take his eyes off the palace. Palombo had come out onto the steps, with the American and the Englishman. Some other men too. Then Campagnolo joined them, staring out into the garden, in their direction.
“Nor do I,” Sordi answered softly. “Or anyone outside the circle of Andrea Petrakis, perhaps. You still live in that beautiful house near the Via Appia Antica. I know. I had someone check. Are you there tonight? Alone?”
“Whenever I finish …”
“Be home by ten. Whatever happens. This would be a good time to be a criminal in Rome, don’t you think? Every law enforcement officer in the city seems to be chasing ghosts.”
Sordi turned so that his back was toward the palace, then spoke directly and rapidly, in a low, calm voice.
“The captain of the Corazzieri here is called Fabio Ranieri. Remember that name. He’s a fine officer and a decent human being. I know the regiment are technically Carabinieri, but you can trust them. Their loyalties, at least, I do not doubt. If you need to come to me for anything, you do it through Ranieri and him alone.”
He stood up, looked around the grounds, smiled very visibly, the way that politicians did when they knew they were being watched, and shook Costa firmly by the hand.
“Your father was a great friend of mine and an honest and frank colleague in the shameful world of politics,” the president said in a firm, loud voice. Then, turning again, in a whisper he added, “Ranieri and I shall visit you, with two men he trusts. Ten o’clock. Be there, Nic. I need friends about me now.”
“Of course …”
He stopped. Sordi’s pallid face had lost what little blood it seemed to possess. A noise was rising from somewhere beyond the walls, down the hill, past the narrow streets clinging to the lee of the Quirinale, tumbling toward the Trevi Fountain.
It
Costa remained silent.
“I’m sorry,” Sordi apologized. “I should not say such things to a police officer, for whom politics have no interest. But understand this …” He nodded back toward the palace. “You and your colleagues are the only ones with any sense of independence to pass through that room today. The rest, the foreigners, Palombo—they’re Campagnolo’s. It’s only understandable. I can take control for the duration of this emergency, no longer. They will have to deal with him when he has his hands on the reins of state once more. I don’t blame them for taking sides, any more than I would you, if you felt the same way.”
“I detest the man,” Costa said without thinking. “He’s made Italy a laughing stock.”
Sordi glanced at the Quirinale again and raised his eyebrows. “Careful, Nic. Even gardens may have ears. I take tea here, you know. Every evening. A habit I learned from a friend in London. Earl Grey tea, made with good Calabrian bergamot, and a very special kind of English cookie of which I’m fond. First sip when
Il Torrino
chimes six-thirty, at which point I pinch myself and continue to try to understand why the son of a laborer from Testaccio is sitting here, at the summit of the
caput mundi
. Old men live by habits, you know. It’s all we have left. You should indulge me with a visit sometime.”
Costa looked around at the manicured gardens, empty save for a workman tending to some shrubs near the northern wall. The Quirinale was a showcase for the state. The real work of government took place elsewhere, leaving the palace to Sordi and his guards.
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why couldn’t you work with him, instead of seizing control?”
“I was within my rights.…”
“I don’t doubt that, sir. But why?”
“For pity’s sake, call me Dario. I spent the first third of my life a communist and the remainder a socialist. These formalities are enough to send a man insane. Not from you, of all people, please, Nic.”
“I don’t understand.”
The president couldn’t take his eyes off the palace. Palombo had come out onto the steps, with the American and the Englishman. Some other men too. Then Campagnolo joined them, staring out into the garden, in their direction.
“Nor do I,” Sordi answered softly. “Or anyone outside the circle of Andrea Petrakis, perhaps. You still live in that beautiful house near the Via Appia Antica. I know. I had someone check. Are you there tonight? Alone?”
“Whenever I finish …”
“Be home by ten. Whatever happens. This would be a good time to be a criminal in Rome, don’t you think? Every law enforcement officer in the city seems to be chasing ghosts.”
Sordi turned so that his back was toward the palace, then spoke directly and rapidly, in a low, calm voice.
“The captain of the Corazzieri here is called Fabio Ranieri. Remember that name. He’s a fine officer and a decent human being. I know the regiment are technically Carabinieri, but you can trust them. Their loyalties, at least, I do not doubt. If you need to come to me for anything, you do it through Ranieri and him alone.”
He stood up, looked around the grounds, smiled very visibly, the way that politicians did when they knew they were being watched, and shook Costa firmly by the hand.
“Your father was a great friend of mine and an honest and frank colleague in the shameful world of politics,” the president said in a firm, loud voice. Then, turning again, in a whisper he added, “Ranieri and I shall visit you, with two men he trusts. Ten o’clock. Be there, Nic. I need friends about me now.”
“Of course …”
He stopped. Sordi’s pallid face had lost what little blood it seemed to possess. A noise was rising from somewhere beyond the walls, down the hill, past the narrow streets clinging to the lee of the Quirinale, tumbling toward the Trevi Fountain.
It
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