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“What?” he said again, but far more softly. A few moments later there was an even softer, more tremulous “Who?” followed almost immediately by “Oh, my God.”
    The phone was falteringly replaced on its base the way an old, old man-and a blind one at that-might, and then Boldini pivoted his chair around to look at Favaretto. His face, which had been dangerous a minute before, was now a dazed, sick white.
    “Favaretto,” he said weakly, “tell Maria to get me the carabinieri on the telephone. Colonel Caravale. Personally.”

TWO
    In Stresa the headquarters of the Polizia Municipale and the offices of the regional carabinieri are separated by only five short, pleasant blocks, but they might as well be in different universes. The Polizia’s office is in the bustling, upscale heart of Stresa, on the lakefront, just off the busy, modern Corso Italia, where it shares a handsome building with the ferry company and the city’s chamber of commerce. Carabinieri headquarters, on the other hand, are hidden away on a little-traveled backstreet, next door to the overgrown garden of an empty, moldering nineteenth-century villa, in an unappealing concrete blockhouse of a building, utterly-almost purposefully-without charm.
    But in this case appearances are deceiving, for the carabinieri are an accomplished national police force whose simple black uniforms command universal respect, while the Polizia Municipale, despite their flashier outfits and imposing sidearms, generally (and wisely) confine themselves to matters of local traffic control and minor crimes. They are quick to hand off any hot potatoes to their carabinieri colleagues who are, fortunately, only a telephone call away.
    And when the phone call was made person-to-person, on a secure line, from Comandante Boldini of the Polizia to his carabinieri counterpart, Colonnello Tullio Caravale-an event that had occurred but five times in six years-Caravale knew even as he picked up the receiver that it wasn’t just another hot potato, but one of which Comandante Boldini was more than usually anxious to wash his hands and to do it in a hurry.
    He was right. The longer he listened, the worse it got. The extraordinary accident that had completely stopped downtown traffic for the last hour, it was now clear, had been a meticulously planned ruse, a clever kidnapping plan that had kept the police cars helpless in their lot, while at the same time forcing their quarry to detour into the narrow, deserted side streets. There the object of it all-a vintage Daimler limousine, no less-had been hemmed in and trapped on Via Garibaldi by two cars with armed hoodlums in them. The kidnapping had been successful but there had been a shootout that had left two men dead: the uniformed driver of the limo, who was sprawled on his back on the blood-smeared front seat, and one of the attackers, apparently left to bleed to death by his accomplices. Still wearing his stocking mask, he had been found mumbling beside the car but had died before the medics could get to him.
    “Has anything been moved?” Caravale asked.
    “No, no, Caravale, nothing’s been touched. I thought you would want your people to examine the scene.”
    “Very good, Boldini, that’s exactly what I want.”
    In his mind’s eye, he could imagine Boldini’s grimace of disapproval. In a meaningless ceremony a few years ago, the city council had made the comandante an honorary maresciallo of Stresa in recognition of his “invaluable service commanding the extensive traffic reorganization necessitated by the repaving of the Strada Statale del Sempione.” And in Boldini’s eyes, since marshals outranked colonels, he was entitled to call Caravale by nothing more than his last name-but not the other way around-and he was patently miffed when Caravale didn’t see it that way. And so, of course, Caravale called him “Boldini” every chance he got.
    “All right, Boldini, I’m on my way, then,” he said. He began to hang up,