thereâs certainly something bogus about the way she prays. She is the daughter of a scientist; the man she sits with in the hospital might even be Davide Zago. But what I saw in her flat is not the library of a professor of philosophy. Yesterday I went to the land registry office. Everything seemed in order: the flat is registered in the name of Chiara Bonardi. I think she knows that I am not a pilgrim priest. But I want to see where itâs all leading; what she is hiding behind that rosary she rattles off so confidently. If she is the atheist I think she is, I shall enjoy destroying her faith in man.
Salazar closed his diary, took his pipe out of his suitcase and smoked the last bit of Afghan black. He had forgotten that it might be difficult to find in Rome.
During the night he woke up with a start, thinking he had heard someone outside the door. He looked at his watch: it was three oâclock, not the kind of time when nuns are on the move. He had left the shutters open, and the door leading into the corridor was white with moonlight. He listened hard: there was certainly movement of some sort. The shuffle of footsteps broke the silence once again. He heard a thud, and a window opening with a grating sound beyond the left-hand wall. That in itself was odd: none of the rooms near his own was occupied, except by linen and provisions of various kinds. He turned the key in the lock and went into the corridor, pistol cocked. One of the doors was open. He pressed back against the door-post, then bounded into the room. The windows were wide open, and the curtain cord was swaying gently, banging against the wall. He leant out over the windowsill and saw a shadow going down from the gallery into the courtyard. He heard yet more footsteps on the stone floor of the entrance hall, then the rasping of the gate as it was pulled shut. The following morning the sisters called the police. Thieves had broken into the convent during the night and stolen some paintings from the refectory, but there were no signs of a forced break-in. Salazar looked suspiciously at the strips of roughly cut canvas dangling from the empty frames.
II
He had looked for an internet point where he would not attract attention, and noted the cine cameras as he went in. There was an e-mail message from Guntur, with an address near San Basilio. Now Salazar got out of the train and started walking along the dismal streets. He found the block of flats, which was on a corner, separated from the street by a double row of rubbish bins. Torn, faded hangings fluttered from the balconies, and the few plant pots contained nothing but weeds; old tyres, rusty fridges, bicycles and other household goods were propped up against the railings, several of which had been torn out; the stakes of the nearby fencing were all twisted. The concrete of the pavement had been smashed into so much gravel; in front of the garages, the comings and goings of the cars had worn it away entirely, leaving a sea of mud. Salazar went up the poorly lit stairway, found the landing of flat 117 and knocked, as he had been instructed, though not before unbuttoning his jacket and ensuring his pistol was at the ready. He heard steps, sensed that he was being spied on through the peep hole. Then the key turned in the lock, and a squat, bearded man who could have been South American appeared on the threshold. He looked around him and gestured to Salazar to go in, then quickly kicked the door shut behind him. Salazar took a few steps across the grubby floor, smelled the bitter scent of cooked resin and knew that he had come to the right place. At the end of the corridor he glimpsed a room, lit by electric light, where several men were busying themselves around some gas rings. The man was barring his way. He took a foil-wrapped packet out of his pocket and held it out to Salazar, then put his hands on his hips, giving them a shake every now and again, as though they were wet. He lifted them to touch
Salazar closed his diary, took his pipe out of his suitcase and smoked the last bit of Afghan black. He had forgotten that it might be difficult to find in Rome.
During the night he woke up with a start, thinking he had heard someone outside the door. He looked at his watch: it was three oâclock, not the kind of time when nuns are on the move. He had left the shutters open, and the door leading into the corridor was white with moonlight. He listened hard: there was certainly movement of some sort. The shuffle of footsteps broke the silence once again. He heard a thud, and a window opening with a grating sound beyond the left-hand wall. That in itself was odd: none of the rooms near his own was occupied, except by linen and provisions of various kinds. He turned the key in the lock and went into the corridor, pistol cocked. One of the doors was open. He pressed back against the door-post, then bounded into the room. The windows were wide open, and the curtain cord was swaying gently, banging against the wall. He leant out over the windowsill and saw a shadow going down from the gallery into the courtyard. He heard yet more footsteps on the stone floor of the entrance hall, then the rasping of the gate as it was pulled shut. The following morning the sisters called the police. Thieves had broken into the convent during the night and stolen some paintings from the refectory, but there were no signs of a forced break-in. Salazar looked suspiciously at the strips of roughly cut canvas dangling from the empty frames.
II
He had looked for an internet point where he would not attract attention, and noted the cine cameras as he went in. There was an e-mail message from Guntur, with an address near San Basilio. Now Salazar got out of the train and started walking along the dismal streets. He found the block of flats, which was on a corner, separated from the street by a double row of rubbish bins. Torn, faded hangings fluttered from the balconies, and the few plant pots contained nothing but weeds; old tyres, rusty fridges, bicycles and other household goods were propped up against the railings, several of which had been torn out; the stakes of the nearby fencing were all twisted. The concrete of the pavement had been smashed into so much gravel; in front of the garages, the comings and goings of the cars had worn it away entirely, leaving a sea of mud. Salazar went up the poorly lit stairway, found the landing of flat 117 and knocked, as he had been instructed, though not before unbuttoning his jacket and ensuring his pistol was at the ready. He heard steps, sensed that he was being spied on through the peep hole. Then the key turned in the lock, and a squat, bearded man who could have been South American appeared on the threshold. He looked around him and gestured to Salazar to go in, then quickly kicked the door shut behind him. Salazar took a few steps across the grubby floor, smelled the bitter scent of cooked resin and knew that he had come to the right place. At the end of the corridor he glimpsed a room, lit by electric light, where several men were busying themselves around some gas rings. The man was barring his way. He took a foil-wrapped packet out of his pocket and held it out to Salazar, then put his hands on his hips, giving them a shake every now and again, as though they were wet. He lifted them to touch
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