answered.
‘And you think that would be enough for me?’ Brunetti asked, injecting disbelief into his voice.
‘That would depend on which journalist, I suppose,’ Guarino said mildly.
After running through a few names that were unknown to one or the other, they discovered that they both knew and trusted Beppe Avisani, an investigative journalist in Rome.
‘Let me call him,’ Guarino said, coming around to stand beside Brunetti.
Brunetti got an outside line on his office phone and dialled Avisani’s number. He pushed the button for the speaker phone.
The phone rang four times, and then the journalist answered with his name.
‘Beppe, ciao , it’s me, Filippo,’ Guarino said.
‘Good heavens. Is the Republic in peril and I have just one chance to save it by answering your questions?’ the journalist asked in a falsely ponderous voice. Then, with real warmth, ‘How are you, Filippo? I won’t ask what you’re doing, but how are you?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ Avisani said, his voice veering towards the despair that Brunetti had so often heard over the years. Then, brightening, he went on, ‘You never call without wanting something, so save us both time and tell me what it is.’ The words were harsh, but the tone was not.
‘I’m here with someone who knows you,’ Guarino said, ‘and I’d like you to tell him that I can be trusted.’
‘You do me too much honour, Filippo,’ Avisani said with arch humility. They heard the sound of paper rustling, and then the voice came through the speaker, saying, ‘ Ciao , Guido. My phone told me the number was from Venice, and my notebook just told me it’s the Questura, and God knows you’re the only person there who would trust me.’
Brunetti said, ‘Dare I hope you’ll say I’m the only person here you’d trust?’
Avisani laughed. ‘You might not believe this, either of you, but I’ve had stranger calls.’
‘And so?’ Brunetti asked, trying to save time.
‘Trust him,’ the journalist answered without hesitation and without explanation. ‘I’ve known Filippo for a long time, and he’s to be trusted.’
‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That’s enough,’ the journalist said and hung up. Guarino returned to his chair.
‘You realize what was also proven by that call?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, I know,’ Guarino said: ‘that I can trust you.’ He nodded, seemed to digest this new information, and then went on in a more sober voice, ‘My unit studies organized crime, specifically its penetration north.’ Even though Guarino spoke earnestly and was perhaps finally telling the truth, Brunetti remained cautious. Guarino covered his face with his hands and made a washing gesture. Brunetti thought of racoons, always trying to clean things off. Elusive creatures, racoons.
‘Because the problem is so multifaceted, it’s been decided to try to approach it by applying new techniques.’
Brunetti held up a monitory hand and said, ‘This isn’t a meeting, Filippo: you can use real language.’
Guarino gave a short laugh, not a particularly pleasant sound. ‘After seven years working where I do, I’m not sure I still know how to use it.’
‘Try, Filippo, try. It might be good for your soul.’
As if in an attempt to remove the memory of everything he had said so far, Guarino sat up straighter and began for the third time. ‘Some of us are trying to stop them coming north. There’s not much hope of that, I suppose.’ He shrugged, and went on. ‘My unit is trying to keep them from doing certain things after they get here.’
The crux of this visit, Brunetti realized, lay in the nature of those still undisclosed ‘certain things’. ‘Like shipping things they should not?’ he asked.
Brunetti watched the other man struggle with the habit of reticence, refusing to give him any encouragement. Then, as if he had suddenly tired of playing cat and mouse with Brunetti, Guarino added, ‘Shipping, but
‘And you think that would be enough for me?’ Brunetti asked, injecting disbelief into his voice.
‘That would depend on which journalist, I suppose,’ Guarino said mildly.
After running through a few names that were unknown to one or the other, they discovered that they both knew and trusted Beppe Avisani, an investigative journalist in Rome.
‘Let me call him,’ Guarino said, coming around to stand beside Brunetti.
Brunetti got an outside line on his office phone and dialled Avisani’s number. He pushed the button for the speaker phone.
The phone rang four times, and then the journalist answered with his name.
‘Beppe, ciao , it’s me, Filippo,’ Guarino said.
‘Good heavens. Is the Republic in peril and I have just one chance to save it by answering your questions?’ the journalist asked in a falsely ponderous voice. Then, with real warmth, ‘How are you, Filippo? I won’t ask what you’re doing, but how are you?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ Avisani said, his voice veering towards the despair that Brunetti had so often heard over the years. Then, brightening, he went on, ‘You never call without wanting something, so save us both time and tell me what it is.’ The words were harsh, but the tone was not.
‘I’m here with someone who knows you,’ Guarino said, ‘and I’d like you to tell him that I can be trusted.’
‘You do me too much honour, Filippo,’ Avisani said with arch humility. They heard the sound of paper rustling, and then the voice came through the speaker, saying, ‘ Ciao , Guido. My phone told me the number was from Venice, and my notebook just told me it’s the Questura, and God knows you’re the only person there who would trust me.’
Brunetti said, ‘Dare I hope you’ll say I’m the only person here you’d trust?’
Avisani laughed. ‘You might not believe this, either of you, but I’ve had stranger calls.’
‘And so?’ Brunetti asked, trying to save time.
‘Trust him,’ the journalist answered without hesitation and without explanation. ‘I’ve known Filippo for a long time, and he’s to be trusted.’
‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That’s enough,’ the journalist said and hung up. Guarino returned to his chair.
‘You realize what was also proven by that call?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, I know,’ Guarino said: ‘that I can trust you.’ He nodded, seemed to digest this new information, and then went on in a more sober voice, ‘My unit studies organized crime, specifically its penetration north.’ Even though Guarino spoke earnestly and was perhaps finally telling the truth, Brunetti remained cautious. Guarino covered his face with his hands and made a washing gesture. Brunetti thought of racoons, always trying to clean things off. Elusive creatures, racoons.
‘Because the problem is so multifaceted, it’s been decided to try to approach it by applying new techniques.’
Brunetti held up a monitory hand and said, ‘This isn’t a meeting, Filippo: you can use real language.’
Guarino gave a short laugh, not a particularly pleasant sound. ‘After seven years working where I do, I’m not sure I still know how to use it.’
‘Try, Filippo, try. It might be good for your soul.’
As if in an attempt to remove the memory of everything he had said so far, Guarino sat up straighter and began for the third time. ‘Some of us are trying to stop them coming north. There’s not much hope of that, I suppose.’ He shrugged, and went on. ‘My unit is trying to keep them from doing certain things after they get here.’
The crux of this visit, Brunetti realized, lay in the nature of those still undisclosed ‘certain things’. ‘Like shipping things they should not?’ he asked.
Brunetti watched the other man struggle with the habit of reticence, refusing to give him any encouragement. Then, as if he had suddenly tired of playing cat and mouse with Brunetti, Guarino added, ‘Shipping, but
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