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shooting.
    I’d want to talk to
Carabiniere
Lucio Renzi. He is supposed to have come out of the bank and walked straight into an armed robbery, and killed Carlo with a single bullet in the chest. He is notorious for being trigger-happy. What is his career history? Between the infamous P2 Masonic Lodge veterans filled with resentment and the enemies of the P2 Lodge veterans, you can always get the information you need from the Italian police. And if Renzi had worked with the secret service for a while, it would all add up. This was no aborted bank robbery, it was an assassination.
    Lisa stares out at the courtyard and the trees bending in the wind. The air is turning chilly. She closes the window.
But I’m not a journalist, I’m not in my real life, I’m here, in exile, in France. I left my entire life behind in Italy. I know who those
 
people are over there. I know them, I understand them, I’m cut from the same cloth, I know the networks. From here, I watch that whole world growing restless, but I can’t reach out to it. It’s as if I’m shut up in a glass cage. I stretch out my hand, I touch the glass, but I can’t get a grip on anything. I am an exile
.
     
    A few discreet taps at the door. Lisa hesitates, then opens it. Roberto. He hugs her.
    ‘I came as soon as I heard. As quickly as I could.’
    She rests her head on his shoulder and cries silently, not for long. No point in talking. They have too many shared memories – they both know what Carlo’s death means. Then she pulls away.
    ‘Shall I make you a tea, or a coffee?’
    ‘Coffee, please.’
    She goes over to the kitchenette, splashes some water on her face, and fills the cafetière. He sinks into one of the two armchairs in the sitting-room area, without taking his eyes off her. Her tall, erect, slightly stiff outline, immaculate grey sweatshirt and trousers, her carefully brushed mass of black hair, her smooth face, her eyes only slightly puffy – why does she need to keep up appearances?
    ‘You’re coping … better than I am, I’d say…’ She shrugs. ‘Are you coming to the meeting between the Italian refugees and the lawyers tomorrow?’
    ‘No.’
    She sets two cups of coffee and a packet of dry biscuits down on the coffee table, and seats herself in the other armchair.
    ‘I don’t want to have to listen to people I don’t know very well – people who didn’t know or love Carlo – talking to me about his death. I don’t want to have to answer questions. But I’m glad you’re here, Roberto, because when I’m with you I feel like talking, and it helps. I am carrying a huge burden. I felt his death coming, I was living with it for the last six months, without saying a word, not even to you…’
    Roberto leans towards her, listening attentively.
    ‘…ever since he was transferred to that prison for common criminals. He was set up, Roberto, his escape and his assassination were planned.’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘First of all, his transfer. No reason, other than that it’s impossible to escape from high-security prisons. Then, the articles in the papers – they’re all the same, as if they were publishing an official press release. And no mention of their source. Because that source is the same for all of them, it’s the police. That ridiculous claim that the two
carabinieri
went to the bank to pay in some cheques, that one of them had an account there, that he was a regular customer. A bit over- the-top , don’t you think? And no one went to sniff around, check the facts, interview witnesses. It’s as if they’re scared to touch it because it stinks.’
    Roberto drinks his coffee, gingerly sets his cup down and frowns. He remains sceptical.
    ‘Not convincing. Journalists nearly always work that way, regurgitating police sources without checking them. What else?’
    ‘The small-time crook who broke out with him. Does that sound like Carlo, teaming up with a common criminal?’
    ‘He spent seven years inside,