Death in a Strange Country Read Online Free PDF Page B

American.’
     
    ‘Why?’ the technician
asked.
     
    ‘Because that’s where the
Americans are,’ Brunetti replied. Any Italian in the area knew of the base in
Vicenza, Caserma Something-or-Other, the base where thousands of American
soldiers and their families lived, even now, so many years after the end of the
war. If he was right, this would certainly raise the spectre of terrorism, and
there were certain to be questions of jurisdiction. The Americans had their own
police out there, and the instant someone so much as whispered ‘terrorism’,
there could well be NATO and possibly Interpol. Or even the CIA, at the thought
of which Brunetti grimaced, thinking of how Patta would bask in the exposure,
the celebrity that would follow upon their arrival. Brunetti had no idea of
what acts of terrorism were supposed to feel like, but this didn’t feel like
one to him. A knife was too ordinary a weapon; it didn’t call attention to the
crime. And there had been no call to claim the murder. Surely, that might still
come, but it would be too late, too convenient.
     
    ‘Of course, of course,’
Bocchese said. ‘I should have thought of that.’ He paused long enough for
Brunetti to say something, but when he didn’t, Bocchese asked, ‘Anything else,
sir?’
     
    ‘Yes. After you speak to
the man from the railways, let me know if he can tell you anything about the
train he might have taken.’
     
    ‘I doubt he can, sir. It’s
just an indentation in the ticket. We can’t pull up anything that might
identify a train. But I’ll call you if he can tell us. Anything else?’
     
    ‘No, nothing. And thanks,
Bocchese.’
     
    After they hung up,
Brunetti sat at his desk and stared at his wall, considering the information
and the possibilities. A young man, in perfect physical shape, comes to Venice
on a round-trip ticket from a city where there is an American military base. He
had American dental work, and he carried American coins in his pocket.
     
    Brunetti reached for the
phone and dialled the operator. ‘See if you can get me the American military
base in Vicenza.’
     
    * *
* *
     
    3
     
     
    As he waited for the call to be put through, Brunetti
found the image of that young face, eyes splayed open in death, came back into
his memory. It could have been any one of the faces he had seen in the photos
of the American soldiers in the Gulf War: fresh, clean-shaven, innocent,
glowing with that extraordinary health that so characterized Americans. But the
face of the young American on the embankment had been strangely solemn, set
apart from his fellows by the mystery of death.
     
    ‘Brunetti,’ he said,
answering the buzzing intercom.
     
    ‘They’re very hard to
find, those Americans,’ the operator said. ‘There’s no listing in the Vicenza
phone book for American base, or for NATO, or for the United States. But I
found one tinder Military Police. Wait just one minute, sir, and I’ll put the
call through.’
     
    How strange, Brunetti
thought, that a presence so strong should be all but unfindable in the phone
book. He listened to the usual clicks of a long-distance call, heard it ring at
the other end, and then a male voice said, ‘MP station, may I help you, sir or
madam?’  
                     
                     
             
    ‘Good afternoon,’
Brunetti said in English. ‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti of the Venice
police. I’d like to speak to the person in charge of the police there.’
     
    ‘May I ask what this is in
connection with, sir?’
     
    ‘It’s a police matter.
May I speak to the person in charge?’
     
    ‘Just one moment, sir.’
     
    There was a long pause,
the sound of muffledvoices at the other end, then a different voice
spoke. ‘This is Sergeant Frolich. May I help you?’
     
    ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant.
This is Commissario Brunetti of the Venice police. I’d like to speak to your
superior officer or to whoever is in charge.’