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the capital hadn’t depressed him as much as usual. He would never learn to like Rome, never be at ease with the weight of centuries of power and corruption there in the dead centre of Italy, the symbol and source of its stagnation. How could he ever feel at home in the heaviest of all cities when he had been born and formed in its living antithesis, a city so light it seems to float? Nevertheless, if he were forced to take sides between the old Veronese and the young Roman there could be only one choice. He had no wish to live in some miserable Northern land where everything ran like clockwork. As if that was what life was about! No, it was about those two lads out there in the corridor, for instance, typical Roman working-class toughs in jeans and leather jackets staring into the first-class compartments as they strolled along the corridor with an easy natural insolence which no degree of poverty could touch, as if they owned the place! The country might have its problems, but as long as it could go on producing that burning energy, that irresistible drive and flair …
    In a second, the door was closed again and the taller one inside, a plastic sports bag in one hand, an automatic pistol in the other. A brief smile flashed across his face.
    ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a terrorist!’
    The bag landed on the floor at their feet.
    ‘All the goodies in there! Wallets, watches, rings, lighters, lockets, trinkets, bangles, ear-rings, silk knickers, you name it. Foreign currency in major denominations only, all major credit cards accepted. Move it, move it!’
    The snout of the automatic jabbed out towards each of the three passengers in turn.
    ‘You piece of shit.’
    It was hardly audible, a shiver of pent-up loathing finding its release. The pistol swung towards the silver-haired man.
    ‘You said what , grandpa?’
    The grey-eyed man by the window cleared his throat conspicuously.
    ‘Don’t shoot me, please,’ he said. ‘I’m just getting my wallet out.’
    The pistol swung away from the Veronese. The other man’s hand emerged holding a large brown leather wallet from which he extracted a plastic card.
    ‘What’s that?’ the youth snapped.
    ‘It’s no use to you.’
    ‘Let me see! And you two move it, for fuck’s sake, or do you want to get kneecapped?’
    Expensive leather and precious metals began to hit the bottom of the plastic bag. The youth glanced at the plastic card and laughed briefly.
    ‘Commissioner of Police? Eh, sorry, dottore, I didn’t know. That’s OK, keep your stuff. Maybe one of these days you can do me a favour.’
    ‘You’re a police official?’ demanded the Veronese as the carriage jerked violently and the train started to roll forward.
    The door opened and the other youth beckoned urgently to his companion.
    ‘Haven’t you fucking finished yet? Let’s go, for Christ sake!’
    ‘Well, do something!’ shrieked the silver-haired man as the pair scooped up the bag and vanished. ‘If you’re a policeman, do something! Stop them! Pursue them! Shoot them! Don’t just sit there!’
    The train was now moving slowly past the San Lorenzo goods yard. A carriage door slammed near by. The police official opened the window and looked out. There they were, haring away across the tracks towards the safety of the streets.

    The Veronese was beside himself with rage.
    ‘So you refuse to reply, do you? But that won’t do! I demand an answer! You can’t get out of it that easily, you know! God in heaven, do you feel no shame, Commissioner? You calmly allow innocent citizens to be robbed under your very nose while you hide behind the power of office and do precisely damn all about it! Mother of God! I mean, everybody knows that the police these days are a bad joke that makes us the laughing stock of every other country in Europe. That’s taken for granted. But dear Christ, I never in my worst moments expected to witness such a blatant example of craven dereliction of duty as I have seen