This time, however, there was no artifice in her visit. She was entering dark and stormy waters, and needed a bit of navigational guidance. She half-knew already what the advice would be; she none the less still needed to hear it.
Bottando came out of his office to greet her, gave her an affectionate kiss, and fussed about making her comfortable.
My dear Flavia, how pleasant to see you. Not often we have you out in the provinces like this. What can I do for you? I assume, that is, that you havent come just to feast your eyes on a properly funded department?
She smiled. I always like to see how things should be done, of course. But, in fact, I am here for some more of your best vintage advice. Premier cru, if you please.
Bottando grunted. Always willing to put age at the service of enthusiasm, he said. As you know. I hope it is a real problem this time, not just something constructed to make me feel less obsolete.
He had noticed. Damn. Flavia felt genuinely, truly remorseful.
You once told me prime ministers can ruin your life, she said.
So they can. Especially if you get in their way. What have you got to do with prime ministers?
With a brief preface about injunctions placed on her for silence, she told him.
Bottando listened intently, scratched his chin, stared at the ceiling and grunted as the tale progressed, just as he always did when they had talked over a problem in the old days. And as the story continued, Flavia saw the slightest gleam come into his eyes, like an old and battered flashlight given a new battery.
Aaah, he said with satisfaction as she finished, leaning back in his chair, gorged on the tale. I can quite see why you want a second opinion. Most interesting.
Exactly. The first question that strikes me, of course, is why such interest from on high? I mean, urgent meetings with the prime minister because of a picture?
I suppose you have to take the explanation about the EU presidency at face value, Bottando said thoughtfully. If I remember, they want to make law and order their top priority. Old Sabauda will have a hard time pontificating about security if everybody is sniggering at him behind their memoranda all the while. No politician likes to look silly. Theyre very touchy on the subject; thats why they confuse their egos with the national interest so often.
Maybe. Nevertheless, it strikes me that should anything go wrong, and there is a good chance that it will, then I am in a somewhat exposed position.
Nothing on paper, I take it?
Flavia shook her head. Bottando nodded appreciatively.
I thought not. And the only other person to hear what was said was old Macchioli. Who is as malleable as a piece of lead sheeting.
More thought. Lets say it goes wrong. Everything appears in the paper, big scandal. Indignant prime minister says that he gave you instructions personally to drop everything and recover the painting, yet you did nothing about it. Hmm?
Flavia nodded.
Even worse, news takes some time to get out. Same indignant prime minister expressing shock that a policewoman should go around raising cash from unnamed sources to pay a ransom.
Another nod. I could go to prison for that.
So you could, my dear. Two years, not counting anything that might be tagged on for corruption and conspiracy.
And if everything goes well
If everything goes well, and you get the picture back, you will have performed a sterling service, which no one will know about. But you will know that the prime minister a man who has many enemies and who has been around so long his skills as a survivor should never be underestimated connived to get around the law so he could look good strutting the international stage. Knowledge, sometimes, can be a dangerous thing. Were you more ruthless, you could perhaps apply a little pressure on him, but he is more likely to see you as an ever-present threat and take the appropriate action. Something subtle, so that if you ever said anything, the response could be along the lines of poor embittered woman, trying to create a fuss because she was dismissed for incompetence". Or corruption, or gross indecency, or something like that. Enough to make sure no one took you seriously. As I say, prime ministers can ruin your life.
Flavia felt her heart sinking as he spoke. Everything he said she had known, of course; having it spelled out in quite such a bald fashion did not raise her morale.
Recommendations?
Bottando grunted. More difficult. What are your options, now? A strategic but untraceable leak to the press, followed by a public promise on your part to leave no stone unturned, etcetera? It would eliminate the prospect of going to gaol at some future date, but pretty much ensure that prime ministerial wrath would descend on you with full force. End of a promising career. Do as you are told? Bad idea, for obvious reasons, especially as Macchioli would say on oath that you had been specifically instructed not to pay a penny.
Doesnt leave much, does it?
Not at the moment, no. Tell me, this ransom money, where is it to come from?
I have no idea. Maybe an extremely wealthy patriot will suddenly wander through the door with a chequebook.
Stranger things have happened. Let us assume that the money turns up. What then?
Get the picture back. Then go after whoever was responsible. They might do it again, after all.
Bottando shook his head. Bad idea. What you must do is keep your head down. Do as you are told, and nothing else.
But Im not sure what I have been told to do. Thats the trouble.
I am merely trying to indicate that, when faced with deviousness, you must be devious yourself. You might also consider the wisdom of putting everything down on paper in front of a lawyer, so that, if necessary, your understanding of the meeting is clear.
Flavia grunted, in exactly the same manner as Bottando used to do himself when she had proposed a distasteful idea and he had acted the part of cautious superior. The general noticed the sound, and all it implied, and smiled gently. For he also, in his way, felt slightly sorry for Flavia. Position and authority were not without their disadvantages, and having to be careful and responsible were among the biggest.
I dont suppose you would like to help
Me? Bottando chuckled. Dear me no. I most certainly would not. I am too old, my dear, to be running around with suitcases full of money under my arm. Besides, I must plead self-interest.
What do you mean?
I am bored, Flavia, he said mournfully. Bored out of my head. I have been sitting here pushing little bits of paper around for a year. I give orders to people who give orders to people who do some policing occasionally but spend most of their time constructing international directives. So I have decided that enough is enough. I am going to retire. My pension will be very much less than I had anticipated but quite sufficient. And I do not want to risk it at the moment. I will willingly give you any advice you want. And when I am finally retired any assistance you want as well. But at the moment, I must keep my head down as much as you.
Im really sorry youre going, she said, suddenly afflicted by an enormous sense of panic and loss.
Youll survive without me, I dare say. And my mind is quite made up. Even the most fascinating job palls after a while and, as you may have noticed, what Im doing at the moment is not especially fascinating. By the way, those chocolates. Did you say Belgian?
Youll survive without me, I dare say. And my mind is quite made up. Even the most fascinating job palls after a while and, as you may have noticed, what Im doing at the moment is not especially fascinating. By the way, those chocolates. Did you say Belgian?
Yes.
Ah.
Why?
No reason. Merely a detail. Always thought them overrated, myself.
She stood up, looking at her watch. Late, late, late. Was it always to be like this now? Constant meetings, constant rush? Never time to sit and talk any more? After several decades of it, shed be ready to give it all up as well. She gave Bottando a brief embrace, told him to keep himself ready to give more advice, and headed back to her car. The driver was sound asleep on the back seat, waiting for her. Lucky man, she thought as she prodded him awake.
3
She was home early, even before Jonathan, and drank a glass of wine on the terrace her promotion, their marriage and the fact that even Jonathan now had a regular salary of a sort meant that, finally, they could afford an apartment they were happy to be in. Still in Trastevere, but four whole rooms now, high ceilings, and a terrace overlooking a quiet square. If you stretched you could just see a bit of Santa Maria. Flavia was too short, but Jonathan could see it, and it gave him a twinge of pleasure just to know it was there. Although the least houseproud of people, even she made something of an effort to keep it neat and tidy. A sign of age, perhaps.
She had left early because she wanted some time to think, and there were always too many distractions in her office. Phones, secretaries, people popping in and out to ask her opinion, or to get her to sign something. She loved it all, most of the time, but it made it difficult to reflect and consider. That was best done looking out at the ochre-coloured buildings opposite, watching people doing their shopping, listening to the quiet murmur of a city going about its business.
Bottandos lack of practical advice had given her more than a little to think about. She had gone through it all, backwards and forwards, considering every option and possibility in a methodical way, and come up with nothing better. However, the essence of it keep your head down, do nothing, but avoid any involvement appalled her. And struck her as almost as dangerous as doing something. Her head was on the block, come what may. If something, anything, went wrong, she would be the one to take the blame. Acting head. Never yet confirmed in her post, even after a year. A matter of a moment to get rid of her; no noise, no fuss. Simply an announcement that a new and permanent chief, more experienced and fitted for the job, was being drafted in over her.
But what could she do? It was certainly the case that she couldnt do anything practical without somebody finding out quickly. Nor could she go trotting round the wealthy of Italy asking if they had a spare suitcase full of unwanted dollars lying around. Fund-raising was hardly her job. If anyone could do it, it should have been Macchiolis task. Thats what museum curators did these days. Or were supposed to. Alas, his talents notoriously did not lie in this direction at all. Still, it might be worth while having a serious talk with him, just in case a ransom note arrived.
Argyll came home an hour later, in a relatively good mood considering hed spent the day trying to din the rudiments of art historical knowledge into his students, and plonked himself down beside her to admire the view. Once it had been as admired as was possible, he asked about the meeting with the prime minister. She didnt want to talk about it yet, so she fended him off.
Hows the paper? she asked mischievously to take her mind off things. This was a sore point with Argyll. He had been taken on in his current job to teach baroque art to foreign students passing a year in Rome, a task he was eminently fitted to do. Then the administration a baroque organization itself had decided for reasons that no one really understood that salary levels would be partly determined by academic production as well as hours put in at the coal-face. Raise the reputation of the institution. Must be taken seriously as a university, not dismissed as a finishing school for rich kids. Which, of course, it was. The essence of the edict, however, was that if you want more money, produce articles. Papers. Better still, a book or two.
Not really that easy, and Argyll was of a stubborn disposition. The idea of being forced into writing things made his hackles rise. However, a bit more money would be agreeable. He was nearly there; he had ruthlessly exploited his old footnotes and conjured up two articles of extraordinary banality for minor journals, and had also been invited to give a paper at a conference in Ferrara in a few weeks time, and that would put him over the required limit.
Except that he didnt have a paper to deliver and, while he did not hesitate to produce grandiose trivia in the comforting anonymity of a journal no one read, he hesitated to stand up in front of a live audience and parrot out obvious nonsense. So, no paper; not even the glimmer of one. He was beginning to get worried. Flavia did her best to sympathize when she was informed, again, that he still couldnt think of anything, and eventually Argyll shifted to another topic, as dwelling on the matter risked ruining an otherwise pleasant evening.
I had a phone call today.
Oh?
From Mary Verney.
She put down her drink and looked at him. Not today, she thought. Its been bad enough already without her. She was retired, Flavia knew; she had said so last time they almost arrested her for theft on a grand scale. But shed said that the time before last as well.
She asked me to ask you if youd mind if she came back to Italy.
What?
Argyll said it again. She has a house somewhere in Tuscany, it seems. She hasnt felt comfortable going there for the last few years, what with you so keen to lock her up. So she simply wanted to know whether you had any outstanding business with her. If you do, shell stay away and sell the house, but if you dont she wouldnt mind coming and seeing if it still has a roof. I said Id ask. Dont look at me like that, he concluded mildly. Im the messenger. You know, the one you dont shoot.
Flavia huffed. I really do have better things to do, you know, than reassuring ageing thieves.
So it seems.
What does that mean? she snapped.
You werent really listening to my fascinating anecdote about the coffee-machine in the staff room. My little joke about the tourist being taken to hospital when a piece of the Pantheon fell on his head didnt make you smile at all, even though it was quite a clever play on words and would normally have produced at least a flicker of amusement. And you have twice dipped your olive into the sugar bowl and eaten it without even noticing.
So she had. Now she thought about it, it had tasted odd. So she heaved a sigh and told him about more serious matters. By the time she finished, Argyll was dipping his olives in the sugar bowl as well. He, in contrast, found them quite tasty. He could see that it did really put the antics of the departmental coffee-machine in the shade.
Oddly, the more important matter was swiftly dealt with. Flavia didnt want Argylls advice on this one, but got it anyway. It just wasnt very good. Your stomach, he said. Its been playing you up for days now. How about if we got Giulio downstairs to have you admitted to hospital for a week? Urgent tests? Suspected ulcer? Gastro-enteritis? You could blame my cooking. Hed be happy to oblige. Then you could sit it out in peace and security.