Perhaps he should have seen it coming, an old hand like himself. The bonhomie, the admiration, the friendliness. But the wine and the warmth lulled him into assurance. Deep down, he was a trusting man, despite years in the police force contending with crooks and—what was worse—superiors. For once, he permitted himself to think that everyone was on the same side; we are all colleagues. Perhaps I really am admired and appreciated for my efforts.
His mood was one of confident, generous urbanity by the time the most senior of his colleagues—a man he had transferred away from his command years ago in a different life in Milan—leant forward with an ingratiating smile and said: “Tell me, Taddeo, how do you see the department developing? In years to come. I want you to take the long view here, you see.”
And so he gave a peroration, about international cooperation and regional squads and all that sort of thing. About new computers and new techniques and new laws which would all make the business of retrieving stolen works of art that little bit easier.
“And yourself? How do you see yourself?”
If he hadn’t been wary before, the alarms should have gone off now. All the signs were there; but he never for a moment even suspected the existence of the huge and omnivorous trap doors creaking open to swallow him up. He talked about teams and leadership and overseeing functions, talking the foreign language in which he had become fluent, if not entirely comfortable.
“Good, good. I’m so glad we are in agreement. That does make our task so very much easier.”
Finally, at long last, despite the heat and the drugging effects of the wine and food, a warning tickle activated itself at the base of his thick and powerful neck.
“You see,” the man said as Bottando mentally assumed a crouching posture but kept silent, “there are all these reorganizations. This new promotion structure.”
“Which ones? Have I missed something again?”
A nervous chuckle. “Oh, dear me, no. It hasn’t been published yet. In fact, you’re the very first person to be told of it. We thought it best, as you may well be the first person to be affected.”
More silence, more caution and a raised eyebrow.
“It’s all structural, you see, and I’d like it known that I am not happy with it.”
Which means, of course, that he is. Probably his idea, in fact, Bottando thought.
“So many people, all crammed up with no promotion prospects. The demographic age bulge. What’s to be done with them? All over the government, the very best people are leaving. Why is this? Because they’ve come to a dead end, that’s why. And then there is Europe. We are entering a new age, Taddeo. We must be prepared. The time to start planning is now. Not when it is all too late. So it has been decided—by people other than myself—to introduce some, ah, changes.”
“What, ah, changes?”
“Two things. Specifically, there is to be an intragovernmental liaison group to coordinate all aspects of policing. It will start with a particular area as a way of testing procedures and operations.”
Bottando nodded. He had heard all of this sort of thing before. Every six months some bright spark in a ministry decided to nail his promotion prospects to yet another piece of liaising. Never came to anything much.
“And the second, which will ultimately be linked with the first, is to sort out the relationship between your department with the new international art safety directive.”
“The what?”
“A European affair, funded entirely from Brussels, but the minister has managed to establish that it will be headed by an Italian. You, in fact.”
“And sit around writing memoranda which no one will ever read.”
“That depends on yourself. Obviously you will encounter resistance. You would have resisted it fervently yourself. It will be your job to turn this initiative into something.”
“Does this mean lots of foreigners?” he asked dubiously.
They both shrugged. “It will be up to you to decide what it is you want to do. Then to get the budget to pay for the staff to do it. Naturally, the staffing structure will have to be balanced.”
“It does mean foreigners.”
“Yes.”
“And where will this fine example of Euro-nonsense be located?”
“Ah, there now. Obviously, the most sensible place would be in Brussels. However …”
“In that case I’m not going,” Bottando began. “The rain, you know …”
“However,” the civil servant continued, “other factors come into operation here.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that money spent in Brussels benefits Belgium; money spent in Italy benefits us. And, of course, we are the greatest centre for art. And, come to think of it, for art theft. So we are lobbying hard for it to be located here.”
“And what about my department?”
“You continue in charge, of course, but you will obviously have to delegate day-to-day operations, which will run in parallel, with some interchange of personnel.”
Bottando sat back in his chair, his good mood dissolving as the full implications dawned on him.
“What choice do I have about this?”
“None. It is too important for personal preference. It is a matter of national honour. You accept, or someone else gets your job. And you will have to go to Brussels in a week to explain how you will run this organization. So you have a lot of work to do.”
Not knowing whether to be pleased or irritated, Bottando went back to his office to try and figure out all the subtleties and, as was his habit, ended up sleeping on it.
It was not the best time for an anonymous tip-off to come in, warning about an imminent raid to steal one of the city’s works of art.
Jonathan Argyll walked home across Rome at half past six in the evening, taking some, but not a great deal, of pleasure in the bustle of a city anxious to get home for its dinner. He was tired. It had been a long day, what with one thing and another. A lecture in the morning, which was becoming routine now that his stage fright had left him and he had gauged the low expectations of the audience, followed by two hours of sitting in the little broom cupboard officially called his office, fending off students in various levels of distress who came to waste his time. Could they be late on this? Could he photocopy that to spare them the trouble of actually sitting in a library themselves?
No, and no. Much to his great surprise, his random career change nine months previously from art dealer to temporary lecturer in baroque studies had brought out a hitherto unsuspected authoritarian side to his character. Combined with a tendency to grumble about what students were like in his day, he had managed to institute a reign of terror for all who were lured into the great mistake of signing up for his course on Roman art and architecture, 1600 to 1750.
The Baroque. The Counter-Reformation. Bernini and Borromini and Maderno and Pozzo. Good lads, all of them. No need for slides or illustrated lectures in this of all cities; just send the idle good-for-nothings on walking tours. On their own on a Monday, escorted by him on a Wednesday. Mens sana in corpore sano. Health and knowledge, all in one package. Cheap at the not inconsiderable price the besotted parents of the little urchins coughed up to add a patina of cultivation to their offspring.