The Absolution (20 page)

KAT WALKED INTO
La Colomba just after one o'clock. The restaurant wasn't the kind of place she normally frequented: the customers were almost exclusively male, grey-haired, and wearing dark, handmade suits, while the waiters wore formal uniforms and black bow ties. But it was the walls, not the clientele, that drew the eye here. A century ago this had been an artists' hang-out, and the owners would sometimes accept a small painting in lieu of cash. Picasso, Vedova, de Chirico and Morandi had been among those who paid their bills this way, and the walls were stacked with priceless artworks.

She spotted her host, seated at a discreet table in a corner. He got up as she approached, kissing her on each cheek, his fingers fluttering down her back in a way that was not quite a caress, but not quite innocent either.

“Captain Kat,” Vivaldo Moretti said, taking her hands in his and moving them apart so that he could look her up and down. “You are looking, if I may say so, more beautiful than ever.”

“Thank you.” She was wearing a dark pleated dress that ended just above her knees. Though formal, it was also a little more feminine than she normally chose for work.

He smiled at her fondly – not that one would have known it from his expression, which was almost immobilised by his
many facelifts; only by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes – and beckoned to the waiter as they sat down. “I've ordered a bottle of the Valentini. Needless to say, I'm hoping to get you a little bit drunk.”

Vivaldo Moretti was a politician, a gossip and an incorrigible flirt. For all three reasons he was an unlikely friend, but friends they somehow were. At some point over lunch he would undoubtedly make a pass – it was no coincidence that they always met in the dining rooms of grand hotels: he would, she knew, already have reserved a room upstairs, just in case. Yet she also knew that when she turned him down he would roar with laughter, accept it gracefully, and tell her what a terrible mistake she was making; knew, too, that if she ever did take him up on his offer, the room would turn out to be the finest in the hotel. She couldn't help liking the old rogue, and although she had no intention whatsoever of giving in to his advances, she suspected she'd be a little disappointed if he ever stopped making them.

He was also the least corruptible politician she knew. It was this, as much as his unerring ability to sniff out political rumours and gossip, that had made him one of the first people she'd called when putting out feelers about Tignelli.

They ordered –
sarde in saor
for him,
schie
for her, with a grilled bass from the lagoon to share afterwards. Knowing that it was the nature of gossip that it must be traded, she told him about her relationship with Flavio. And, both because he would relish it, and because she couldn't tell anyone else – certainly not Holly – she also dropped in a few choice titbits about her visits to Flavio's office.

“So he shouted through the door, ‘Tell the judge I'm coming',” she concluded. “And you know what? He was.”

Moretti laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes with his
napkin. When they moved on to speak about the investigation, however, his mood grew sombre.

“I never imagined,” he said, “when you asked me to find out whether Count Tignelli has any political ambitions, that it would be such a difficult task. Had the request come from anyone but my favourite
capitano donna
of the Carabinieri, in fact, I might well have concluded after a few conversations that he had none, and abandoned the quest. But rather than disappoint you, I persevered, and found to my surprise that there were still some secrets in this city to which I was not yet privy.”

“Such as?”

“That man has bought himself more influence, and in a shorter time, than anyone I have ever come across,” Moretti said bluntly. “He's throwing money at everyone from city councillors to your own Carabinieri. And it's not just local influence he's after. There are four senators in Rome under his direct control.”

“Why? What does he want?”

The waiter stopped by to refill their glasses, and the politician waited until they were alone again before continuing. “On the face of it, separatism.”

“Separatism? Like the Liga Vèneta, you mean?”

For decades now, a majority of the inhabitants of the Veneto had been in favour of breaking away from the rest of Italy. In a recent poll in which over two million people voted, almost ninety per cent had supported independence, and the separatist Liga Vèneta or LV was the biggest party by far in the regional assembly.

“Like the LV, yes,” he agreed. “There's a feeling, you know, that separatism might be an idea whose time has finally come. Scotland was a close-run thing; Crimea managed it; Catalonia and the Basque Countries are hoping to be next . . . Everywhere,
independence movements are gaining momentum, while conventional politics have been discredited by scandals and apathy.”

“But the separatist parties in the Veneto all want different things,” she objected. “The LV want us to become a completely new country, but stay in the European Union. The Lega Nord want us to be part of a new region called Padania. The North-East Project are libertarians, the LVR are republicans, the PNV are federalists . . .”

“Indeed. But if a real leader emerged, someone who could bind the various factions together,” he said. “What then?”

“And that's Tignelli's role,” she said thoughtfully. “He sees himself as the leader. The new Napoleon.”

Moretti nodded. “The other big obstacle, of course, is the lack of a referendum. Opinion polls are one thing, but a majority at the ballot box would be quite another. Article One of the United Nations Charter guarantees a people the right to self-determination. Once there's cast-iron evidence of what the people want, it becomes a lot harder to refuse it.” He leant forward. “And I have it on good authority that one of Tignelli's tame senators in Rome is going to propose exactly that – a formal, binding referendum on Venetian secession, to take place this autumn.”

“So it will happen?”

“That's the curious thing. Of course it won't. The Veneto isn't like Scotland or the Basque countries – we're the wealthiest part of Italy. Rome would be mad to allow a referendum to take place, because the separatists would surely win, and Rome would lose the greater part of the country's tax revenues. So they'll block it, just as the bastards always do.”

She glanced at him. “You sound as if you're on the separatists' side.”

He shrugged. “Like all northerners, I resent seeing our
taxes go to prop up failing regions in the south, while our own schools and hospitals don't get the funding they need. But personally, I think the answer is reforms, to force the other regions to balance their books.”

Their food came. Moretti, like many men his age, was a traditionalist when it came to matters of cuisine, and the food in front of them now was as classically Venetian as it was possible to be.
Sarde in saor
, cold sardines with vinegar, raisins and pine nuts, was a dish that had evolved in order to preserve fish before the advent of refrigeration. Outsiders often professed not to like it, but to Venetians who had grown up with its tangy, gelatinous flavours, it was the taste of home. Kat's
schie
, too, were something of an acquired taste. Tiny mud-shrimps from the lagoon's edge, they looked like nothing very much, whilst the white corn polenta on which they were served had a mouth-filling, sticky texture that was very different to pasta or gnocchi. But they were fresh and juicy, each one an explosive mouthful of fishy brine.

She said curiously, “Earlier, when I asked you what Tignelli wanted, you said, ‘On the face of it, separatism.' Why ‘on the face of it'?”

Moretti spread his hands. “He must know perfectly well his referendum won't happen. There has to be more to it than that.”

She thought for a moment. “What will happen if a referendum is proposed, and Rome vetoes it?”

“If people have their hopes raised and then dashed again, you mean? Some will argue that Rome is already in breach of Article One. Undoubtedly, tensions will run high.”

“A good moment, then, to unilaterally declare an independent republic? With Tignelli's tame Freemasons ready to move into all the key positions?”

He considered. “Perhaps. But there would still be huge logistical challenges. For example, you'd have to persuade businesses to stop paying their taxes to Rome. And since the government can take the money directly from their bank accounts . . .”

“But what if you already owned a bank?” she persisted. “A nice, Venetian bank?” Another thought struck her. “I bet that's why he got Cassandre to open all those accounts. He wants to be ready on day one – the moment he announces his independent republic of Veneto, or whatever it's to be called, he'll say that every business has a bank account waiting for them.”

“Even so . . . People have tried to break Italy apart before. Even at times of crisis, it isn't an easy matter. And this isn't a time of crisis, is it?”

“Unless he means somehow to create one.” The waiter took away their empty plates and she drank a mouthful of the white wine. It was delicious: cool and rich and savoury. “The dead Freemason, Cassandre, was reading up on the internet about the Golpe Bianco, the 1974 White Coup plot. The plan back then was to get the government to declare a state of emergency and use that as a pretext to seize power, wasn't it? Perhaps he saw parallels between that and what he'd learnt of Tignelli's plans.”

“That's often how these things are done,” he agreed. “The instigator demands powers to tackle some pressing issue, then simply refuses to relinquish them once the crisis is over. Greece, Thailand, Pakistan, Peru . . . they all followed a similar pattern. Tignelli hero-worships Napoleon, you say?”

She nodded.

“Coup by consent was how Bonaparte came to power, in the putsch of 18 Brumaire. And the fall of the Venetian Republic was a coup in all but name.”

“That makes sense. He's modelling this as closely as possible on what worked for Napoleon. He told me himself that he'd been studying him.”

“If this is true, it's a very serious matter,” Moretti said thoughtfully. “Not just for the Veneto, but for Italy too. Without us, I should imagine the country will be bankrupt within a year.”

The full brilliance of Count Tignelli's scheme only then dawned on her. “Of course – the deal with the bank. That's part of it too.”

“What deal?”

“He bought the Banca Cattolica della Veneziana cheap, because its books are burdened with a huge pile of apparently worthless credit default swaps that have been unloaded onto it by the Vatican Bank,” she explained. “But they're not actually as worthless as they look. As you just said, if the Veneto becomes independent, the chances of Italy defaulting on its sovereign debts will go up, and the value of those swaps will go up with them. He's not bankrolling independence for political reasons, or not alone. He's set it up so that it'll make him a fortune.”

“And the crisis you think he may intend to manufacture to make all this happen? Do you have any idea what that might be?”

“None whatsoever,” she confessed. “But whatever it is, I suspect it will be something dramatic. Tignelli isn't a man to do things by halves.”

ON THE WALL
of Holly's apartment, the spidergram was spreading.

She decided to flip things round and take a look at Gilroy's side of the operation. Not surprisingly, there were no references to him anywhere on the internet. It had been too long ago, and the spy had for obvious reasons kept a low profile during his professional career.

She did, however, come across the name Hannah Proost. Proost had been an administrative assistant in the CIA's Milan Section – competent, hardworking, but certainly not
what most people thought of when they used the word “spy”. She'd been doing her job for more than twenty years when, in 2003, she was asked to assist a visiting team from Langley.

The team were there to snatch a radical Muslim cleric called Abu Omar from the streets of Milan. After several weeks of planning, they intercepted him in a quiet street, bundled him into the back of a van and drove him to the US Air Force base at Aviano. He was then flown to Egypt, where he was tortured by the security services on the CIA's behalf. It was just one among dozens, possibly hundreds, of similar renditions carried out in the post-9/11 years.

What made this one different was that a determined Italian prosecutor decided to charge the CIA officers involved with conspiracy to kidnap. Since most of the snatch squad had stayed in Italy only long enough to carry out the operation, and had in any case used false names, being convicted
in absentia
wasn't any great hardship. For Proost – resident in Italy for over two decades, married to an Italian, and now forced to flee to the US, unable even to visit her sick mother in Holland – it was very different. The CIA refused to confirm or deny that the operation had taken place, thus preventing her from claiming diplomatic immunity, and also refused to confirm that her involvement had been limited to providing administrative and translation services. She resigned in order to issue her employers with a lawsuit; as a result, her government pension was withdrawn. Pretty soon her only occupation was giving interviews to journalists.

The Abu Omar story had been picked over by the world's press until there was nothing left, but it seemed to Holly that a twenty-year CIA staffer might well know something
useful about her quarry. She contacted a journalist who'd done a recent interview with Proost, asking him to pass on her details. To avoid scaring off either party, she used her private email.

Within hours she had Proost's answer.
I'll talk to you for a fee of $1,000 US.

She wired the money by PayPal.

Thank you. I don't like taking money for this, but it's my only source of income. Please understand though that I can't and won't discuss anything relating to operational security. Would you rather do this by Skype or Carnivia?

Skype
, Holly wrote. She still found something a little disconcerting about conversing with the masked denizens of Carnivia.

Details exchanged, she found herself looking at a dumpy middle-aged woman sitting on a suede La-Z-Boy settee. A cat was curled up next to her, on a cushion embroidered with the words “Dogs have owners, cats have staff”.

Holly introduced herself as a writer doing research for a book about the CIA in Italy.

Proost snorted. “Another one?”

“This is a slightly different angle,” Holly said. “I'm writing an appreciation of one of the Section's most senior agents – Ian Gilroy. I imagine you must have known him?”

There was a pause. Skype lag? No: when she spoke, Proost's voice was guarded. “Ian Gilroy. He's still going, is he?”

“Well, he's retired from the CIA, of course. He has a part-time role in education at Camp Ederle.” The other woman's face was expressionless. “I'm just after some background. What kind of guy was he, what kind of operations he ran . . .”

“We didn't overlap by much.”

“I know.” Holly glanced at her notes. “By my reckoning, Gilroy would have come to Italy towards the end of the 1960s. The Section Chief then was a man called Bob Garland. From what I can gather, Garland took Gilroy under his wing.”

Proost shook her head. “Whoever told you that got it wrong. The talk when I arrived was that Garland and Gilroy were rivals, not protégé and mentor.”

Holly frowned. Gilroy had always given the impression that, whilst he'd been alarmed by some of his predecessor's methods, they had been close. “So Gilroy tried to clean things up, and Bob didn't like it?”

“Wrong again. My understanding was that there'd been concern back at Langley about the way things were heading when Garland ran the show. There was an initiative from the Italian socialist party to share power with the communists—”

“I know about that. The Historic Compromise,” Holly interrupted. She wanted to focus Proost on the stuff she couldn't find in the history books. “What was Langley's response?”

“Well, panic, pretty much. From what people said to me later, the seventh floor decided Garland had been too soft. Gilroy was sent to sort things out.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

Proost shrugged. “I do know that there were hundreds of operations in those years. The cryptonyms went all the way from A to Z.”

“Could those operations have included infiltrating the Gladio network?”

A long pause. “Even if I knew that, I couldn't discuss it with you.”

Holly mentally parked that response for later analysis. “Let's assume for a moment that it did. What I still don't understand is that the gladiators were generally seen as being on the right wing of Italian politics. Yet the only public record of Ian Gilroy's career has him involved in an operation to penetrate the left wing, the Red Brigades. Why would one agent be involved in both operations?”

“Like I said, I don't know any details. But I do know that after the collapse of the Historic Compromise, Gilroy was seen by Langley as the man who'd delivered the goods. That was when Bob was eased into retirement.”

So personal ambition, and America's strategic objectives, had somehow coincided. Gilroy had achieved what his bosses wanted, and profited as a result. But what exactly had that been? And more to the point, by what methods had it been achieved?

“America was working for the collapse of the Historic Compromise, then,” Holly said. “And Gilroy was the man who made it happen. But why would that require the death of someone who found out about it?”

“Death?” Proost frowned. “Whose death?”

“Major Ted Boland, at Camp Darby. He and an Italian neighbour stumbled across evidence suggesting that part of Gladio was being run as a network of
agents provocateurs
—”

“Wait a minute.” Proost stared at her. “Boland is your name.”

“Major Boland is my dad.”

“Oh my God,” Proost said faintly. “You're
that
Boland.”

“What Boland?” Holly said, suddenly alert. “What do you know about my father?”

“Nothing.” Proost shook her head emphatically.

“Did Gilroy try to have him killed to protect his operation?
Was it the CIA who authorised it? If you know anything – anything at all—”

Proost leant forward to the screen. A message appeared.

Call ended
.