‘I advise—’
‘This is a private engagement of long standing. God knows I’ve missed enough of them already. We’re not cowards. Nor are we parading ourselves in public. You know your duty when it comes to that. Find these two. The American and whoever’s with her. Do what you must. If you can save us the expense of a jail term, all the better…’
‘The way someone dealt with Aristide Greco?’
Soderini was astonished by his tone. ‘That seemed an admirable outcome to me. One less dangerous parasite to deal with. Are you going soft in your dotage, Marrone? Do I need someone younger and better to run the Ognissanti stazione?’
No answer.
Eventually the gruff and distant voice said, ‘Even in Florence, there’s a limit to how much shit can be shovelled underneath the cobblestones. The journey from hero to villain can be remarkably short. I thought a professor of history might appreciate that.’
Then the line went dead.
Julia Wellbeloved wandered through the shops in the Via dei Calzaiuoli, gasped at the prices, meandered round the Duomo, found a coffee in a place with a payphone, managed to call England, reversing the charges.
She felt like a teenager again. Stranded somewhere. Stupid and in trouble. Not that she’d done that more than two or three times. Her father seemed more amused than offended and listened carefully as she talked of what she wanted: an appointment with the appropriate consultant in Harley Street the week after. A favour from a friend who’d offer at least an opinion for free, or whatever sum a doctor felt to be a pittance.
That done, she wandered east towards Sant’Ambrogio, finally found a black evening dress in a second-hand shop run by a garrulous, friendly woman with too much make-up and a cigarette dangling permanently from her lower lip.
By then it was noon. Fifteen minutes’ walk away was San Marco, the famous convent, now a museum and closed for refurbishment, but not to friends of Sandro Soderini. She slipped into the first cheap café she met, bought a glass of wine and a panino. Wondered where Pino Fratelli was.
Not strolling up the hill. That was for sure.
‘You think you can get round me with a bit of bread and some lampredotto?’
Noon in the Sant’Ambrogio market. Fratelli and Luca Cassini back at the same stall.
‘I was being generous. Trying to say sorry for last night. I never wanted to drag you into my problems. You insisted…’
Cassini had been told to steer clear of the stazione for a few days until the air cleared and Walter Marrone decided what to do with him. The prospect of being kicked out of the Carabinieri didn’t seem to bother him one jot. His father was already talking about a career in one of the leather stores, selling expensive valises to rich foreigners. Not a job he fancied, Fratelli felt, but Luca Cassini was an easy, amenable soul. One who expected little of the world and was grateful mostly for what he got.
‘And then what?’ the young man asked.
‘Then we go to meet Julia in San Marco. You like painting, don’t you?’
‘’Course I do. Don’t know a thing about it, mind. Why are we going there?’
‘Because she asked for us! Must I always have an ulterior motive?’
‘You tell me,’ Cassini spluttered.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full. Just listen, Luca. Walter Marrone still has no idea who this man is. The one who was hiding with Chavah Efron when we went out to Fiesole yesterday. It says on the radio they’ve found the van. There’ll be prints in it, but you know how long it’ll take to match them to anything.’
‘They’ve got a computer now.’
‘A decent filing clerk would find us an answer more quickly.’
‘This isn’t your problem, Pino, is it? Or mine?’
‘I’ve made certain inquiries. Around the market here. To see who’s been buying curious food.’
‘What’s that got to do with that stuff we found in Fiesole?’
‘Perhaps nothing. Who knows? The man who attacked the paintings in the Brancacci—’
‘Here we go again.’
‘There’s a link,’ Fratelli insisted. ‘I’m sure of it.’
Cassini finished his panino, balled up the paper it came in, threw it on the stone market floor.
‘Marrone’s got a whole team on the case. And some big knobs up from Rome. One mention of the word terrorist and you’re knee deep in blokes in black suits and sunglasses on their heads. Funny lot, if you ask me.’
‘How do you know this?’ Fratelli asked.
‘I did report for work this morning, you know. Asked a few questions before they booted me out of the stazione. I’m not daft.’
‘I never thought you were. And the more we work together, the more I like what I see.’
‘I’ll give you a discount on a nice handbag then,’ Cassini moaned.
‘You’re not out of the Carabinieri yet. We need a name. I’ve made inquiries. It’ll take a little while. If you could find a way to sneak back into Ognissanti this afternoon…’
‘More than my life’s worth. Captain Marrone stared daggers at me this morning. I was lucky to get out of there with my balls intact, thank you.’
Fratelli shrugged.
‘Stop it!’ Cassini cried. ‘I’m not going back in there.’
‘Fine. Your choice. I respect it.’
‘Pino…’
But Fratelli wasn’t listening. Someone was marching down the hall towards him. A big man in white cotton overalls and green boots, covered in blood from chest to fat thighs.
He was grinning and waving a piece of paper in one hand, a long yellow chicken neck, the head still intact, red comb, shiny mustard beak, sinews dripping from the severed end.
‘Fratelli!’ the butcher roared when he found them. ‘I have news!’
The refectory kitchen in San Marco. Blood and flesh beneath the frescoes of the last supper: hungry saints watching a whey-faced Christ. Fish and raw winter vegetables: the dark crinkled leaves of cavolo nero, leeks and carrots, chicory and radicchio. Pontecorvo examined the produce on the table, reading the menu for the night.
Waiting to be told.
That was all he did, and now the orders came from someone new. She was making puntarelle by the sink the way he’d instructed, scraping the tall, weed-like chicory plants into pale green strips then dropping them into a bowl full of water and ice cubes to curl. On the counter by the side stood a basin of crushed, salty anchovies and olive oil that would cover them when, finally, that evening, they were served among the antipasti.
It was two in the afternoon. The temporary staff for the catering company that occupied the ground-floor premises — once a refectory for Savonarola’s novice monks — had assembled for work. The money was a pittance; experience was, for the thugs who hired them, a boon. So he’d had no difficulty persuading them to take on a new hiring, a strong young woman who’d carry and skivvy and do whatever they wanted.
The company only worked special occasions, one each month more special than the rest. Aldo Pontecorvo had been left to his own devices when it came to that commission. He was a fixture; had been that way for more than two decades when he began as a lowly trainee sous chef waiting on tables, too fearful of his betters to look them in the eye. Now this was his task alone and no one even asked him what the menu would be. The epicurean splendours of the Brigata Spendereccia, which would be only one of the attractions on offer for that evening in the secret hiding place of the Medici, were left to his imagination and slow, patient research among cookery books going back eight centuries and more.
As usual, one week before, he’d spent one morning going through the resources handed down from generations past, in the archive building near Sant’Ambrogio. Then he’d scribbled down the dishes and walked round the busy, colourful market, talking to buyers, assessing what was practical.