Vipers (26 page)

The commissario was very familiar with that hour that really wasn't anything at all, that seemed never to pass, that was no longer night but not yet morning. That hour was a territory with its own weather and its own people, with borders and lights and shadows that would vanish soon enough, leaving no trace. He knew it well, because often his dreams took his breath away and he was forced to wander the streets, in search of a peace that he knew to be little more than a mirage for his tormented soul.

The grief and pain of others became his own. The curse was simply this: it was impossible for him to nestle comfortably in that cocoon of selfishness that everyone is endowed with at birth. Everyone, except him.

Why that fate had been visited on him was something he'd never know. The motorcyclist who had gone too fast, the reckless little boy who'd taken a tumble off the streetcar, and the thousand others just like them were free now: not him. And he never would be free.

He thought of Viper. Ever since he'd learned about Modo he hadn't thought about her, but then what had happened to his friend demanded urgency, and for the rest of the day that investigation could wait.

It was a strange murder, though. Usually, they had to look for a motive, something that might have driven someone to commit such an atrocious act, so contrary to human nature; here there was a veritable jungle of motives.

A murder dictated by passion, but carried out in a rational manner: otherwise the murderer would have left some trace of his or her presence, some bit of evidence, an object; he'd have made some mistake—that's always what happens when you let yourself be swept away by an emotion that clouds the mind to the point of murder. But instead, nothing. There was nothing.

Maybe the murderer really had been good. Or maybe he had just been lucky. Ricciardi just couldn't say.

In the end, he'd found the place and he'd settled in to wait.

As he was waiting for his audience with Achille Pivani, he thought back to the circumstances that had first led him to make the man's acquaintance. The previous summer, during his investigation of the murder of a noblewoman, he'd chanced upon evidence of an intimate friendship that the woman's stepson was carrying on with a strange party functionary, a man from the north whose duties were top secret and who seemed to possess enormous knowledge about anyone and everyone: even about Ricciardi himself.

On that occasion he'd understood that Fascism was a very complex phenomenon, and that the seemingly fanciful tales that circulated about OVRA—the notorious secret police agency that beat back all anti-Fascist activities, real or imagined, with stealthy brutality—were, if anything, understating the case. Through a dense network of informants, made up for the most part of ordinary citizens, strolling vendors, doormen and concierges, office clerks and housemaids, OVRA gathered information and reports that revealed a picture of practically everybody's social and political attitudes, first and foremost those of prominent members of society. And once the picture was clear, OVRA struck mercilessly.

Pivani was a slender, impeccably dressed man, about forty years old, with a calm voice, well educated and intelligent; their conversation had seemed to Ricciardi something like a fencing match, a sort of pas de deux, during which neither had grazed the other, though both were poised over a potentially lethal abyss. In other circumstances, in another universe, the commissario might even have liked that unhappy, introspective man; but Pivani had the sinuous, death-dealing charm of a rattlesnake.

Ricciardi remembered quite clearly that at the end of the one conversation he'd had with Pivani, right in party headquarters, the building outside which he was now waiting, the man had urged him to try to persuade Modo to rein in his public statements. He'd never forgotten those words, which had, with the benefit of hindsight, echoed in his mind as a threat as soon as he'd learned from Maione just how his friend had been arrested. Now he was going to ask for an explanation of what had happened, even if it meant putting himself at risk.

A man in a black shirt showed up whistling a tune, unlocked the front door, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the entrance, digging a sheet of paper and a cigar butt out of his pockets. Two other men showed up shortly thereafter, and after a few wisecracks they headed off upstairs; a window swung open on the fifth floor, where Ricciardi remembered the party offices were located.

He had decided in advance that he would only make himself known when he saw Pivani arrive, so that he woldn't have to spend much time in the midst of hostile Fascists. He didn't have to wait long: after a couple more minutes, a subdued voice came out of the shadows behind him and said:

“
Buongiorno
, Commissario. Quite the early riser, I see; but then, that's not unusual for you, from what I've heard.”

Without turning around, Ricciardi replied:

“
Buongiorno
to you, Pivani. The wise man never puts off till tomorrow what he can do today, as they say. I need to speak to you, and urgently.”

The voice from the shadows murmured:

“So I see. I should tell you that I was expecting your visit, though perhaps a little later in the day; and that it struck me as best, both for you and for me, not to speak in my office. There's a café that opens early, right here on the corner. You head on over, and I'll join you in a few minutes: probably best not to be seen walking together in the street.”

R
icciardi chose a table inside and ordered an espresso. The café was small and not fully visible from the main street, therefore offering a degree of shelter from the eyes of passersby.

Pivani came in almost immediately, sat down across from him, and gestured to the waiter for another espresso.

“I have to tell you, Ricciardi, that if I were to leave this city the thing I'd miss most would be the coffee. It's so much better here than anywhere else that I'd just have to give coffee up entirely.”

The commissario stared at him without speaking: he had no intention of carrying on a friendly conversation with the man who, in all likelihood, was keeping his good friend under lock and key.

Pivani must have sensed his thoughts, because he said:

“I see you're angry with me. I understand you. I'd feel the same way if I were in your place. But I assure you that you're mistaken.”

Ricciardi's expression remaineded unchanged.

“Are you saying that I should just take it in stride? I should accept the fact that an unmarked car, with three bodybuilders aboard, pulls up and grabs one of the finest human beings I know, a professional who dedicates his life to helping those who suffer, and takes him who knows where under threat of violence?”

Pivani waved his hand dismissively.

“All these inaccuracies. There were four people in the car, not three, including the driver. The car was unmarked because it was rented, and the organization that carried out this operation certainly doesn't place its insignia on automobiles. Last of all, there was no violence. Your friend, who may be impulsive but is also intelligent, quickly understood that any attempts to escape would be unsuccessful, and so he resigned himself to his fate.”

Ricciardi leaned forward and hissed:

“Pivani, don't try to sugarcoat the pill: I want Dr. Bruno Modo freed immediately, and allowed to return to the extremely important work that he does for society. This is still a free country and . . .”

The man giggled briefly.

“Oh, is it? I'm honored that you should think so, Commis­sario. Not everyone would agree with you. Your friend, for instance, certainly wouldn't. And forgive me, but I doubt that you're in a position to demand anything. We're not sitting here, I've never met you, and this conversation never took place, nor will it ever, as you well know. For that matter, you know that without having to be told. All I need do is whistle once.”

With those words, he turned and looked at the plate-glass window. Ricciardi saw two well-dressed men out in the street, leaning against a wall and chatting idly.

Pivani went on:

“If we're here, it's because I've allowed it. And the main reason I'm allowing it is that I'm curious. I'm interested in the human aspects of my . . . my profession: they help me to better understand the things that happen, to interpret them. And to act accordingly.”

Ricciardi's face was an impassive mask.

“Ah, so then we're an experiment, is that it? Lab rats. Insects in a maze. But I'd be careful if I were you, Pivani. Rats and insects, in big enough numbers, can be quite dangerous.”

The man laughed happily.

“Look at that, you're actually threatening me now! Quite interesting. But you didn't come here this morning to argue with me, did you? You came to secure your friend's release. And yet you have no intention of begging or pleading, instead you threaten me. Just what are you hoping to gain in this way?”

Ricciardi stared at him, unblinking.

“I'm not threatening you, Pivani. I'm hoping that someone, even in a brutal and slithering organization, will take responsibility for putting a very special man back in the place where he can do his work. That's all.”

Pivani mulled that over, deep in thought.

“Brutal and slithering, you say. I know it can seem that way. All the same, believe me, compared with our counterpart organizations in other countries, we're nothing more than a musical combo. I've seen things happen, elsewhere, that I wouldn't even know how to describe to you, so great is the horror that, as you know, all forms of wanton violence inspire in me.”

Ricciardi didn't want to lose sight of the crux of the matter:

“But don't you believe that the most intolerable form of violence is to deprive of his freedom a man who hasn't done anything wrong, who hasn't hurt anyone?”

Pivani spread both arms wide:

“On the question of whether he's done anything wrong, if you'll excuse me, I beg to differ. You're a man of the law, no? Then you'll recognize that all rules, however ridiculous and absurd they may seem, must be obeyed. But now we're wasting time.”

Ricciardi stared at him, baffled.

“What do you mean by that, that we're wasting time? How do you mean?”

Pivani finished his coffee, a look of bliss on his face.

“Mmm, how delicious. Now then: our organization has a rather complex structure. There are different jurisdictions, various branches that are in charge of different sectors. The one I head is not the one that . . . picked up our friend the doctor.”

Now Ricciardi was disoriented:

“What are you talking about? Then why would you know everything about it, every tiniest detail!”

“That's quite another matter. It's my job to know everything, every tiniest detail. As for picking up the doctor, no, that wasn't us. We were informed of what happened yesterday morning, during that pathetic parody of a funeral for the murdered whore; one of the young men, the dimmest of the bunch, just to be clear, is the son of a rapidly rising Fascist official who works in Rome. He put in a call to his father, and the mechanism that was thus set in motion resulted in the doctor's arrest. The unmarked car with four men aboard set out from the capital. That's what happened.”

Ricciardi tried to gather his thoughts.

“So you're saying that Modo was taken to Rome?”

“I never said that. He may well still be here; but he won't be here long.”

The commissario wanted more information.

“Then who can I speak to? What can I do to help Bruno?”

Pivani gave him a sad look.

“You can't imagine how often I receive informants' reports, how many I've received about the doctor. I even decided to investigate in person: I've gone to see him work, I've eaten where he eats, I even followed him to that place where the girl was murdered. And I've seen the two of you together. And I made up my mind that he is a valuable man, a good man, honest and caring.” Here he paused and went on in an undertone: “Whether or not you believe me, I wrote an official opinion. In summary I said that persecuting people like him was counterproductive for Fascism's image, that we'd only create martyrs and that martyrs are always dangerous. He slipped through the meshes of a net that for now remain fairly large. But yesterday . . . he was unlucky. He ran into the wrong people. And when the brigadier pulled out his revolver, well, that wasn't very smart: still, though, a knife was pulled as well, and the informant who told us about the incident mentioned that detail too, and one thing balances the other, so your friend Maione got off, because we do make an effort not to kick up too much dust in our dealings with law enforcement. For the doctor, however, there was nothing that I could do.”

The commissario waited. Two young women entered the café, laughing at some joke they were sharing. Pivani looked at them, saddened.

“How lucky the young are, especially in springtime, no, Commissario? The season of flowers. The season of love, for some. But not for everyone.”

Ricciardi was reminded of the pain that Pivani was forced to suffer thanks to an emotional attachment, as Ricciardi had learned by chance some months ago. The functionary fell silent for a moment, then went on:

“I want to make it clear once again that this conversation never took place, but I also want to tell you that among your exceedingly slender group of non-work-related acquaintances, there is a person. This person, whom you keep at arm's length much more than she would like, has a certain amount of power. I don't believe that she's even aware of it, but she's very much beloved by an extremely important woman, a close friend of hers. They are like sisters to each other.”

A beautiful, tormented face appeared before Ricciardi's eyes, as it bit its lower lip to keep from crying.

Pivani continued:

“I don't know what it is that this woman feels for you, Ricciardi. But I would say, to judge from her behavior and above all from the fact that she moved to this city, that whatever it is, it's quite powerful. The lady is subject, by order of the highest authorities, to close and constant surveillance in order to ensure that no harm can come to her. In the context of that surveillance, she has been assigned a . . . a functionary, let us say. This gentleman, who is in a certain sense a colleague of mine, could serve as a privileged conduit as far as the episode that interests you is concerned. Have I made myself clear?”