Chapter Eleven
But amid the rubble was an invisible scheme. The desk's surface was some type of hardwood that had been nicked and marked over the decades. One defect was a small stain of some sort-Marco had decided it was probably ink. It was about the size of a small button and was located almost in the dead center of the desk. Every morning, as he was leaving, he placed the corner of a sheet of scratch paper directly in the center of the ink stain. Not even the most diligent of spies would have noticed.
And they didn't. Whoever sneaked in for the daily sweep had never, not once, been careful enough to place the papers and books back in their precise location.
Every day, seven days a week, even on the weekends when he was not studying, Luigi and his gang entered and did their dirty work. Marco was considering a plan whereby he would wake up one Sunday morning with a massive headache, telephone Luigi, still the only person he talked to on the cell phone, and ask him to fetch some aspirin or whatever they used in Italy. He would go through the ruse of nursing himself, staying in bed, keeping the apartment dark, until late in the afternoon when he would call Luigi again and announce he felt much better and needed something to eat. They would walk around the corner, have a quick bite, then Marco would suddenly feel like returning to his apartment. They would be gone, for less than an hour.
Would someone else handle the sweep?
The plan was taking shape. Marco wanted to know who else was watching him. How large was the net? If their concern was simply to keep him alive, then why would they sift through his apartment every day? What were they afraid of?
They were afraid he would disappear. And why should that frighten them so? He was a free man, perfectly free to move about. His disguise was good. His language skills were rudimentary but passable and improving daily. Why should they care if he simply drifted away? Caught a train and toured the country? Never came back? Wouldn't that make their lives easier?
And why keep him on such a short leash, with no passport and very little cash?
They were afraid he would disappear.
He turned off the lights and opened the door. It was still dark outside under the arcaded sidewalks of Via Fondazza. He locked the door behind him and hurried away, off in search of another early - morning cafe.
Through the thick wall, Luigi was awakened by a buzzer somewhere in the distance; the same buzzer that awakened him most mornings at such dreadful hours.
"What's that?" she said.
"Nothing," he said as he flung the covers in her direction and stumbled, naked, out of the room. He hurried across the den to the kitchen, where he unlocked the door, stepped inside, closed and locked it, and looked at the monitors on a folding table. Marco was leaving through his front door, as usual. And at ten minutes after six, again, nothing unusual about that. It was a very frustrating habit. Damn Americans.
He pushed a button and the monitor went silent. Procedures required him to get dressed immediately, hit the streets, find Marco, and watch him until Ermanno made contact. But Luigi was growing tired of procedures. And he had Simona waiting.
She was barely twenty, a student from Naples, an absolute doll he'd met a week earlier at a club he'd discovered. Last night had been their first together, and it would not be their last. She was already sleeping again when he returned and buried himself under the blankets.
It was cold outside. He had Simona. Whitaker was in Milan, probably still asleep and probably in bed with an Italian woman. There was absolutely no one monitoring what he, Luigi, would do for the entire day. Marco was doing nothing but drinking coffee.
He pulled Simona close and fell asleep.
It was a clear, sunny day in early March. Marco finished a two - hour session with Ermanno. As always, when the weather cooperated, they walked the streets of central Bologna and spoke nothing but Italian. The verb of the day had been "fare," translated as "to do" or "to make," and as far as Marco could tell it was one of the most versatile and overused verbs in the entire language. The act of shopping was "fare la spesa," translated as "to make the expenses, or to do the acquisitions." Asking a question was "fare la domanda," "to make a question." Having breakfast was "fare la colazione," "to do breakfast."
Ermanno signed off a little early, again claiming he had studies of his own to pursue. More often than not, when a strolling lesson came to an end, Luigi made his appearance, taking the handoff from Ermanno, who vanished with remarkable speed. Marco suspected that such coordination was meant to give him the impression that he was always being watched.
They shook hands and said goodbye in front of Feltrineili's, one of the many bookstores in the university section. Luigi appeared from around a corner and offered the usual hearty "Buon giorno. Pranziamo?" Are we having lunch?
"Certamente."
The lunches were becoming less frequent, with Marco getting more chances to dine by himself and handle the menu and the service.
"Ho trovato un nuovo ristorante." I have found a new restaurant.
"Andiamo." Let's go.
It wasn't clear what Luigi did with his time during the course of a day, but there was no doubt he spent hours scouring the city for different cafes, trattorias, and restaurants. They had never eaten at the same place twice.
They walked through some narrow streets and came to Via dell' Indipendenza. Luigi did most of the talking, always in very slow, deliberate, precise Italian. He'd forgotten English as far as Marco was concerned.
''Francesca can't study this afternoon," he said.
"Why not?"
"She has a tour. A group of Australians called her yesterday. Her business is very slow this time of the year. Do you like her?" 'Am I supposed to like her?"
"Well, that would be nice."
"She's not exactly warm and fuzzy."
"Is she a good teacher?"
"Excellent. Her perfect English inspires me to study more."
"She says you study very hard, and that you are a nice man."
"She likes me?"
"Yes, as a student. Do you think she's pretty?"
"Most Italian women are pretty, including Francesca."
They turned onto a small street, Via Goito, and Luigi pointed just ahead. "Here," Luigi said, and they stopped at the door to Franco Rossi's. "I've never been here, but I hear it's very good."
Franco himself greeted them with a smile and open arms. He wore a stylish dark suit that contrasted nicely with his thick gray hair. He took their coats and chatted with Luigi as if they were old friends. Luigi was dropping names and Franco was approving of them. A table near the front window was selected. ''Our best one," Franco said with a gush. Marco looked around and didn't see a bad table.
"The antipasti here are superb," Franco said modestly, as if he hated to brag about his food. "My favorite of the day, however, would be the sliced mushroom salad. Lino adds some truffles, some Parmesan, a few sliced apples..." At that point Franco's words faded as he kissed the tips of his fingers. "Really good," he managed to say with his eyes closed, dreaming.
They agreed on the salad and Franco was off to welcome the next guests. "Who's Lino?" asked Marco.
"His brother, the chef." Luigi dipped some Tuscan bread in a bowl of olive oil. A waiter stopped by and asked about wine. "Certainly," Luigi said. "I'd like something red, from the region."
There was no question about it. The waiter stabbed his pen at the wine list and said, "This one here, a Liano from Imola. It is fantastic." He took a whiff of air just to emphasize the point. Luigi had no choice. "We'll try it."