Escape (18 page)

Roberto is growing impatient.

‘Enough beating about the bush, Lisa. Now you have to tell me everything you know, what it was that made you ask the right question.’

Lisa starts, then picks up the thread.

‘Listen carefully, I’m going to tell you the whole story. Daniele Bonamico is a working-class man from Brescia, on the far right (you’re aware that there is such a thing, aren’t you?), the sort who get used as goons. He’s well in with the Tomasino family, doing dirty deeds with the eldest brother Andrea and involved to some extent in the 1974 massacre – we’ve already talked about that – but he doesn’t know his place and, even though he looks like a low-life thug, he gets one of the Tomasino girls pregnant. He’s run out of Brescia by the family. Then he hangs out with the secret service, lends a hand here and there, and ends up in jail with Carlo, before getting himself transferred. I don’t know whether Bonamico is already receiving orders, or whether he jumps at the opportunity and negotiates afterwards. I’m inclined to think the latter, but it doesn’t matter, the fact is that he becomes close to Carlo. You can imagine how he embroiders the tragic story of his
love affair, thwarted by the rich bastards, omitting his political activities, of course. You know Carlo as well as I do. A sentimental romantic and an incorrigible womaniser…’

‘And prison is unlikely to have helped, seven years of going without…’

‘Once he’s understood what makes Carlo tick, Daniele’s sitting pretty. He tells Carlo he has a plan for getting his own back on the Tomasinos, obtaining some money and eloping with his beloved. A robbery on one of their old banks, he knows the layout of the premises well from having more or less worked there, and he says he’s got contacts inside the bank, people who are prepared to help him, so there’s absolutely no risk. It’ll go like clockwork, and win them a packet of money to boot. It is even possible that he passed off the girl who was with them as the Tomasino girl. She was in Zuliani’s first version of the breakout, the only one I accept as true. All he needs is an accomplice. Carlo’s up for it. Just think: an operation to recover loot from the rich to avenge an impoverished lover, involving no violence and no risks, offering him the chance of a new life … Oh, and the former Tomasino bank is located at number 10, Via Del Battifolle in Milan.’

Roberto winces.

‘Are you making this up?’

‘No, I’m not making it up. The bank is a former Tomasino establishment, and could be, if I’ve understood correctly, the Milan head office. To continue. Carlo begins to dream. Then he’s transferred, because there’s no escape from high-security jails, and Daniele is released a little later. The Red Brigades’ open letter gives Carlo the green light. After that, things move very fast. I’ve always been intrigued by the apparent ease of their escape. From what we know, Carlo had accomplices among the truck drivers, but how did he find them? A mystery. Filippo himself, in his initial account, has no idea. Has anyone investigated? Apparently not. The trucks’ pick-up schedule is changed and they’re half an hour late. None of the
security guards seems concerned, nobody keeps an eye on the rubbish collectors while they load the skip. In my view, I think the only thing that hadn’t been planned by the prison management, or by Carlo, is that Filippo gets mixed up in the whole thing. Daniele and the girl are waiting for Carlo at the dump, and drive him to the mountains, carefully concealing themselves from that parasite Filippo. Once they’re rid of Filippo, Daniele drives Carlo to the Milan bank. There, once again, it’s a cinch, Carlo and his accomplices know the security guards’ timetable down to the minute, even though it changes daily. They are anticipated and Carlo is shot down by Brigadier Renzi. Bonamico then takes off and disappears, having fulfilled his contract.’

‘I don’t believe your story. What about the other two dead, the
carabiniere
and the security guard?’

‘I’m not sure about them. They might have been shot to bump up the death toll.’

‘I still don’t believe it.’

‘Why not? Don’t you believe our secret service is capable of such murders? How many victims were there in the massacres they organised in league with the far right? Do you think that bothered them in the least?’

‘Setting off a bomb and massacring unknown civilians isn’t quite the same thing as murdering its own men on an official assignment in cold blood. The political consequences can be much more serious.’

‘Really? Wake up, Roberto. Two senior
carabinieri
have just stood trial for the Peteano attack. You remember the Peteano attack? A car bomb blew up a
carabinieri
bus, three
carabinieri
dead. That was in 1972, the
carabinieri
know who planted the bomb as they have concrete evidence. And they cover it up. Until the bomber, an Ordine Nuovo activist, gives himself up, just over three years ago. Well? Isn’t that somewhat similar to what I’m saying here?’

‘That’s the point. Exactly. If they’re embroiled in this
business, it’s highly unlikely that they’d risk the same tactic just when the trial’s taking place.’

‘So let’s assume that Carlo shot in self-defence when he realised he’d fallen into a trap.’

‘Remember, you’re always saying that Carlo never used guns, which, by the way, I don’t necessarily agree with. More seriously still: how do you explain Bonamico’s reappearance as prosecution witness against Filippo? In your scenario, he absolutely has to disappear. He changes his name and he disappears.’

‘On that point you’re right, it’s the fly in the ointment, and I’ve asked myself the same question. I’d like to know when exactly he changed his name. That would be helpful. To explain his comeback, I wondered whether it might be poor coordination on the part of rival departments. But that’s not entirely convincing. And I have a better suggestion. Bonamico was at the scene of the robbery because he was with Carlo, he planned the job with him. Do you follow me? He was seen in the Tazza d’Oro by a witness, who recognised him. You don’t forget a mug like that. For example someone who knew him in Brescia at the time of the 1974 bombing, and who knew of his past as a stooge of the neo-fascists. Brescia isn’t that far from Milan so it’s not out of the question. As I speak, I’m wondering whether this witness too might have a connection with the bank in Via Del Battifolle? A former employee of the Tomasino family, or something. At the time, he’s not particularly surprised, but next day after the hold-up, with photos all over the papers, the witness realises that the man he saw with Bonamico in La Tazza d’Oro is the former Red Brigadist. The time of the robbery also fits, and our man does his duty as a citizen and rushes off to tell all to the cops. The cops do nothing, but hush up his testimony. Then comes Filippo’s book and the press campaign around him sparked off by Prosecutor Sebastiani, who is definitely not aware of the full picture. Maybe the witness wakes up or something else happens that we don’t
know about. In any case, by coming forward to testify, Daniele explains his presence in La Tazza d’Oro during the hour prior to the hold-up. He does so without anyone being able to establish a link between him and Carlo, and reinforces the credibility of Filippo’s novel, something which suits the police very well.’

‘Too complicated.’

‘I can’t come up with anything better. And if I were Bonamico, complicated or not, I’d be trying to save my skin.’

‘When you speak to the League of Human Rights, the lawyers and Filippo, I advise you to stick to the proven facts. The surprise witness is a former fellow inmate of Carlo’s under an alias. That’s already enough to demolish the official version. As for the rest, I suggest you store it up for the day when you decide to write a novel. In my opinion, you’re talented and you’ve got a subject. When are you seeing Filippo? We need to move fast now.’

‘Cristina will be back at work tomorrow. I’ll ask her to set up a meeting. She has a better chance of persuading him to come than I do.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Cristina arrives back from New York, where she has spent her holiday with her son, late in the afternoon. She is worn out by the heat, the flight and jet lag, and her spirits are low. She is impatient to get home and settle in. A nice shower, a big glass of fresh water with a slice of lemon, then bed, perhaps with a good novel. Her key turns in the lock, she puts down her suitcase, switches on the light and freezes. The big book on Siena lies open on the coffee table, at the
double-page
spread on the
condottiere
. Her heart beats faster. For the first time the painting appears as a threat, a declaration of war. Next to it stands the bottle of brandy and a half-filled glass. Evidently someone has been in her apartment. Fear. Maybe still there. Fear. Empty building. Fear. Mounting fear.
Stop. Right now
.

She shakes herself like a wet dog, marches over to the window and opens the blind. She takes a few steps on to the veranda, where the sun still shines in pools, and from the nearby woods there comes a whiff of fresh air: a familiar and reassuring universe. She calms down and goes back inside, inspecting every room meticulously. She picks up the hat from the dressing room floor and replaces it on its stand. She opens all the cupboards. In the bathroom, she tidies the dressing table and notices that the bottle of Mitsouko by Guerlain is missing. Strange. The bedroom seems to have been spared by the visitor.

She returns to the living room, removes the glass from the coffee table, stale: what a waste. Closes the book, relieved to see the menacing warrior disappear. One fresco that she’ll never look at in the same way again. Then she picks up the bottle and pours herself a full glass of brandy, more effective on this occasion than water with lemon, and slumps into an armchair. Who has been in her apartment? An immediate certainty: Filippo. Why is she so sure? A thought catches her unawares:
His smell is in this room … Because I know his smell? Have I memorised it? Nonsense. It’s simpler than that. I reckon it’s Filippo because I know the guy is perfectly capable of forcing my lock – child’s play for him. He’s a petty crook, and possibly even a killer. Simpler still: because he’s an outsider to my world, because I don’t understand him, because I toyed with him yet failed to seduce him. I have a burning memory of the way he thrust my hand away when I placed it on his at the Café Pouchkine. A humiliation. Because his running away like that was already an assault. Because he’s there, close by, on the other side of the wall, and because that proximity is beginning to feel like a permanent threat of invasion. He’s signalling that he can enter my home when he pleases, as he pleases. He is master of my space, and so also of my mental space. I won’t live under this threat. First of all, I have to put myself out of his reach. Then, I’ll see
.

Cristina stands up, grabs her suitcase still standing by the front door as if waiting for her, and leaves her apartment. She’ll spend this first night back in Paris at a hotel.

Lisa arrives at work very early because she is running the place almost single-handed during the holiday period. This can be oppressive at times. Through the bay windows she spots Cristina making her way towards the clinic, dragging a huge wheelie suitcase. She looks crumpled and tired. A surge
of affection and remorse.
We used to be friends, and she has always behaved well towards me. I sent her Filippo. It’s wrong of me to hold that wretched novel against her. Bad faith. Besides, I need her, that’s probably why I feel this sudden burst of affection
. Cristina pushes open the door and Lisa goes over to greet her with a kiss.

‘It’s lovely to see you. Did you have a good holiday? Have you come straight from the airport? There was no need to rush.’

‘I already delayed my return by two days. I phoned in, but all the same…’

‘No problem. Things are quiet at the moment, as you know. I postponed or cancelled your appointments, and I’ve rescheduled your timetable, it’s all on your desk. Everything’s fine. Sit down. I’m going to make us an espresso. You look as if you could do with one.’

Cristina sits down in one of the armchairs in the waiting room, her suitcase beside her, her hands folded on her knees. Lisa returns carrying a tray with two plastic cups and a plate of biscuits prettily arranged in the shape of a flower. Cristina stares at the tray with tears in her eyes.