“What we like to call ‘the former Yugoslavia’ is one hour by plane from Italy. There were boatloads of refugees crossing the Adriatic, turning up on our beaches. This was local for us, not distant pictures from a distant land. There was a peace camp on the Circus Maximus at the time. Three, four thousand people from all over Europe. All kinds of people. Hippies. Protesters. The far left. Just ordinary people, too. And quite a few refugees who’d got nowhere else to go.”
“So what are you saying, Nic? That Alessio was kidnapped by one of them?”
“I’m just raising possibilities. What if Alessio escaped the caves? Some of them exit not far from where the camp was. Imagine he ran in among the tents there, distraught, frightened for some reason. He didn’t want to go home. Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted.”
“They’d have called the police, Nic. It’s what you do with lost kids. And what could have scared him so much he wouldn’t want his own parents?”
“I don’t know. But you can’t assume the people there would have gone to us in those circumstances. Some would. Some of them wouldn’t speak to the police about anything. We’re the fascists, remember? Maybe they didn’t have access to the news. They wouldn’t know a child was missing, being hunted by hundreds of people.”
The silence down the line told him she wasn’t convinced.
“If I’m right, Alessio Bramante could be anywhere now, living under an entirely different name,” he persisted.
“He’d be twenty-one or so,” she objected. “You’re telling me he wouldn’t have remembered who he was? That he would have stayed hidden all these years, with his father in jail?”
“His father would have stayed in jail whether Alessio turned out to be alive or not. Besides, that’s your instinct talking, not fact. It’s not uncommon for kids taken at that age to become absorbed by the unnatural family they enter. Children try to adapt to the situation around them. Look at your own country. White children who were abducted by Native Americans in the nineteenth century became Native Americans. They weren’t looking to go back home. They often rebelled if someone tried to force white society on them. They didn’t think the situation they found themselves in was primitive, they thought it was how the world was supposed to be. If Alessio was somewhere else altogether… Out of Rome. Out of Italy perhaps…”
The pause on the line told him she still didn’t think much of this at all.
“You always look for the bright side, don’t you?” she asked gently.
“You were the one who said it was odd there wasn’t a body.”
“And it is. And I’d love to believe Alessio Bramante’s alive and well out there somewhere. I just don’t think it’s possible. Sorry.”
“Fine. Your turn for a stab in the dark,” he challenged, stung.
There was a quick intake of breath on the line. “How about this? Giorgio Bramante made the discovery of a lifetime in that excavation of his. Yet, because of the awkward politics at the time, no one would give him the money to make the most of it. No one would even let him tell the world what was down there. Which, for the arrogant bastard I suspect he is, must have been even worse.”
“Go on.”
“What if he tried to lose Alessio in those caves deliberately? So that he could run out into the street, yelling for help? The rescue service would turn up. The media too. His big secret would be out in the open and there’d be nothing anyone could do about it.”
“You really think a father would sacrifice his son just for professional pride?” It was an extraordinary idea, one none of them had even come near when they’d been throwing the case around that evening.
“No! Because this isn’t professional. From what I’ve read about Giorgio, it was personal. His work was his life. And he figured Alessio would be safe, in the end. There’d be a big tearful reunion. No one would ever ask how the kid got lost down there in the first place, because no one ever does. We’re just grateful they come out alive.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Nic. I know you’re big on family, and so am I. But there are some tough truths you have to face up to. We’ve all seen what happens. When things like this happen, the focus of all that public sympathy turns on the parents as much as it does on the kid. That’s the way it works. The parents are the ones on TV. If they’re lucky enough to find the kid, no one asks any hard questions. How the hell did they get there in the first place? We’re just glad it ended cleanly, keep our doubts to ourselves, and hope someone goes round and quietly tells those people never to get themselves in a mess like that again.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
“Think it through,” she went on. “Follow the logic. Chase down the flaws. Please.”
“There aren’t any. But it’s still more far-fetched than my theory.”
“Really?” He was starting to recognise that tone in her voice. It demanded attention. “There were six stupid students down there, trying to raise the Devil or something. Like it or not, something extremely weird did go on. You know that. So does Leo. He wouldn’t be asking me to cold-case these files if he wasn’t desperate, would he?”
No, Costa knew. Falcone wouldn’t. The old Leo would never have released a single page of a criminal investigation outside the Questura. But the old Leo was gone.
“Giorgio Bramante beat one of them to death,” Costa murmured. “What the hell was that about?”
“It was about his son,” she answered. “Wouldn’t you feel the same way?”
“I’d feel the same way. That doesn’t mean I’d do what he did.”
He heard a long pause on the line, then she asked, “How do you know, Nic? How would anyone know the way they’d respond in a situation like that? Can you be so sure?”
He struggled for an answer.
“I think so,” he said. “I hope so. Look, it’s late. Let me pass all this on to Leo in the morning and see where we get. If you need access to any files…”
“Um…” she said cautiously, “I think we’re fine on that, thanks.” Then she hesitated. “Is Leo all right?” she asked, a little nervously. “He’s still convalescent. He could have said no.”
“Leo’s looking better than I’ve seen him in months,” he answered honestly. “He needed to get back to work.”
“Tell him to call Raffaella from time to time. She hasn’t been out much since Venice.”
“I’m sure with you around she’ll get over the shyness….”
Emily laughed again, and the sound brought out in him the same physical pang he’d experienced ever since they’d met. There was a note of concern in her voice all the same.
“Raffaella’s over it now. She and Arturo are still downstairs with his best friend, working their way through the household grappa cellar. If Leo cares…”
Costa thought of Falcone’s hungry, intense look as he eased his injured body back behind that familiar desk. It was a big if…
“I’ll tell him. But… Bear with me.”
The light was flashing on the handset: an internal call. He put Emily on hold and hit the answer button.
It was the duty officer. Costa listened, then cut the line and went back to her.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. “You sound worried.”
“Front desk says someone claiming to be Dino Abati has turned up looking like a street bum, asking to talk to Leo. No one else would do.”
“That sounds like good news.”
“Maybe…”
He looked around the office. The cleaner was gone. The place was empty. This was an operational floor, staffed only during daytime and outright emergencies. As far as he knew, no one else was there apart from him and the three individuals asleep in the rudimentary quarters along the corridor.
“That was half an hour ago,” he continued. “The desk’s heard nothing since they sent him up here with some rookie agente—”
“Nic?”
The light in the corridor outside failed, followed by those in the office, throwing most of the floor ahead of him into the dark. Only the bright silver rays of the moon, visible through scudding rain clouds, remained. He turned to face what should have been the doorway, blinked, trying to adapt to the sudden gloom. It could just be coincidence. Not that he believed in them much.
“Call the switchboard back,” he told Emily quietly. “Tell them we may have an intruder. Old wing. Third floor.”
She broke the connection without saying a word.
He could just see the extensions printed in the list by the phone. Costa called the first one. A sleepy Teresa answered.
“Don’t ask questions,” he ordered. “Just lock the door and keep it locked until someone arrives. Yell at Leo through the wall and tell him to do the same.”
Then, just to make sure, he dialled the room he’d been sharing with Falcone.
No one answered.
He swore quietly. At least he’d seen fit to check out a handgun from the armoury that afternoon. It sat in its regulation holster on the desk in front of him. Costa hated wearing the thing. He picked it up, checked the safety was on, then, grasping it low in his right hand, walked towards the pool of inky black spreading out ahead of him.
He could picture the corridor in his head, with its glaring white paint and bare bulbs. The emergency quarters were just ten metres or so on from the doorway.
Costa tried to hurry. Desks bumped into him, from all the wrong places. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to adapt, opened them and thought he could just make out the shape of the area ahead.
A car swept past outside. The bright stray flash of its headlights shot through the office, briefly illuminating the area like a flash of lightning. Then it was gone, leaving its visual imprint in his brain. Ahead, Nic Costa saw the single outstretched silhouette of a figure in a familiar pose, one he’d learned to loathe over the years: arm outstretched, weapon ready, moving purposefully, with intent. As the car moved on, he could see the pencil-thin beam of a caver’s helmet lamp running in a distinct yellow line from the figure’s head, slicing through the gloom, aiming towards the rooms where Falcone, Peroni, and Teresa Lupo had been sleeping.
“Wonderful,” he muttered, then took a first, tentative step towards the invisible corridor ahead.