“Put both hands on the steering wheel,” said the voice behind him, making the hair stand up at the nape of his neck. “Guaglio’, did you hear what I said? Get rid of your cigarette and put both hands on the wheel!” He tried to glance up at the rearview mirror, but the man was hidden behind his headrest.

“What the fuck . . . ?”

“Do it now!”

Slowly, Antonio tossed the cigarette butt out the window; then he grabbed the steering wheel. The man emanated a smell of cheap cologne.

“Who the fuck are you?” Antonio asked.

“Who the fuck are you?” the other man asked. Antonio started to turn around, but the cold metal pressed against his cheek persuaded him to desist. Out of the corner of his eye, Antonio glimpsed the barrel of a handgun.

“I’m going to ask you just one more time. Who the fuck are you?”

Antonio swallowed. “Officer Antonio Scipioni, from Aosta police headquarters . . .”

“And what are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I’m working.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake . . .” And the man opened his door and got out of the car. Antonio saw half the man’s body reflected in the side-view mirror. The man walked forward. Tapped on his window. At last, Antonio rolled down the glass. And finally he could see him. In his early fifties, hair neatly combed, a mustache and a goatee. He smiled in at the officer. “Captain Pietro Andreotti . . .” And he extended his hand.

Still baffled, Antonio shook it. “Captain?”

“Carabinieri, guaglio’ . . . All right, so why are you staking out this restaurant?”

“Orders from my deputy chief. That is, though, I’m not actually staking out the restaurant. I’m tailing Walter Cremonesi.”

The officer nodded. “Why don’t you do this. Go on home. And forget about Cremonesi.” The carabiniere gave him a wink and vanished into the dense stand of hedges that surrounded the parking lot. Scipioni heaved a sigh and touched the pocket of his heavy jacket where he had his camera. It didn’t strike him as a particularly good idea to tell the carabiniere about the pictures he’d just taken. He started the car and left the Ristorante Santalmasso with his head full of unanswered questions, worse than the stack of bureaucratic files awaiting him on his desk.

Monday

When Rocco finally got to sleep, it proved to be short-lived. At five o’clock he leapt to his feet as if the fire alarm had just gone off. Instead, there was complete silence, except for someone going by in the hallway. He dressed hastily, grabbed a towel, and left the room. The hallway was illuminated by fluorescent lamps. He decided to head down to the dining hall. Maybe they made their coffee better than they did their chicken breasts.

In the kitchen they were already at work on breakfast. There were two men cooking; a third was loading trolleys.