Free The Puppeteer by Timothy Williams Page B

silence. Then Pergola gave an awkward laugh. “I’m afraid I forgot to offer a drink to your friend.”
    “Brigadiere Pisanelli is my assistant.”
    Almost imperceptibly, Pisanelli shook his head. Although he was nearly bald, at the back of Pisanelli’s head the hair was long and it brushed against the collar of his suede jacket.
    Another long silence while Pergola’s eyes moved from Trotti to Pisanelli and then back to Trotti. The fingers of one hand tapped against the crease of his trousers.
    “We’ve recovered five hundred thousand lire of the money that was stolen.” Trotti watched for the reaction in the man’s eyes: there was nothing.
    “Five hundred thousand—I suppose it’s a start. Congratulations.”
    “You can congratulate the Carabinieri.”
    “Is there any chance that the rest of the money—the rest of the hundred million will be found in this way?”
    “What I still don’t understand,” Trotti said, “is why the robbers should take the money and then still feel the need to put a couple of bullets into your legs.” He paused. “A way of behaving that’s more reminiscent of terrorists than of professional bank robbers.”
    “That’s an enigma that perhaps the Guardia di Finanza will be able to resolve.”
    For an instant, Trotti’s eyes blazed. “I think you should have told me more about your bank—and who it’s owned by.”
    “Commissario, have you ever met with anything other than our most sincere desire to cooperate? Nothing, I repeat nothing, has been deliberately kept from you and you have always—”
    “Of course, of course. But there may have been an element of suppression.”
    “An ugly word.”
    “Ten and a half per cent of the shares in the Banca San Matteo are in the hands of a Liechtenstein consortium.”
    “Dienstinvest.” He nodded. “That is the information which you can find in the annual report.”
    “You would have helped me a great deal—me and my colleagues of the Guardia di Finanza—if you had revealed that Dienstinvest of Vaduz was in turn controlled by the Banco Milanese.”
    A light laugh, but the eyes continued their rapid movement. “It’s hard for me to know what you know and what you don’t know.”
    “Tell me everything and I have merely to pick and choose.”
    “I’ve always acted in good faith. And so, I’m sure, has the staff of the Banca San Matteo. I can assure that there’s been no …” He made an open gesture. “As for a connection between Banco Milanese and Dienstinvest—that really doesn’t concern us here. On the other hand, if you feel that in some underhand way this bank is concerned with Banco Milanese, I can assure you you’re making a mistake. The very nature of Banco Milanese …” He shrugged. “Things are very critical.”
    “Precisely. Then you know that the Banco Milanese has been the target of several attacks in the press and even in Parliament? You know that it’s been the object of inspection by the Banca d’Italia?”
    “I know what I read in the paper.”
    “
Popolo d’Italia
, Signor Pergola?”
    For an instant the banker did not speak. “I know that Banco Milanese is run by a very strange man. I can assure you I’ve never met him. Signor Bastia and I do not orbit in the same circles. I can also assure you that between the Banca San Matteo and Banco Milanese …”
    Trotti asked, “It’s quite possible, isn’t it, that the unfortunate attack of which you were the victim, is connected with the Banco Milanese?”
    “Absurd.” He laughed.
    “Isn’t it possible that the two bullets removed from your leg were a warning, Signor Pergola?”
    “It’s quite true that Dienstinvest controls an important percentage of this bank’s shares. But to maintain—as you seem to be doing—that because of Dienstinvest, the Banco Milanese is exerting direct or indirect control upon us—this is quite absurd. Quite absurd.”
    “Who owns Dienstinvest?”
    “A list of investors is something that