16 ...

When not in uniform, Guido Marchese had the familiar look of a small business man, perhaps the congenial café owner who served your morning espresso with quiet efficiency. His height and weight were average. Once a month he had his barber touch up the colour of his hair; like many Italian men, he preferred to keep the coal black colour that he felt went a long way toward maintaining a youthful, if not sexy, appearance in which he had always taken pride. Over the years, however, his eyeglasses had thickened, as had his waistline, and the telltale wrinkles and pouchiness in his face tended to conflict with the look he imagined he saw each morning in the mirror. Still, he was a pleasant looking fellow, and usually calm and unflappable in any situation.

This morning was different. His coffee grew cold and the fragrant cornetto sat untouched as file after file landed with a slap on the desk. 

Finally, with an "ah, here they are," he leaned back in his leather chair, rolled it away from the desk a few inches, and absently picked up the pastry with his left hand while studying the papers in his right. 

Marchese had been recruited by the Guardia di Finanza after finishing his MBA at the University of Bologna. It was there that he met Rocco Papaleo, the legendary Carabinieri officer who was largely responsible for Italy's recent successes in combating the drug trade. Papaleo had been a guest lecturer at the time, and was given Marchese's thesis to read. The thesis examined various strategies for dealing with high profile kidnappings, and Papaleo had been sufficiently impressed that a collegial friendship with Marchese had eventually resulted in the invitation to the younger man to attend the central police academy. He thought that Marchese might have a future with the Guardia; and the rest, as they say, is history. Marchese, now in his mid-forties, with an impressive list of successes, had established a formidable reputation as an investigator. This was the work he loved. Several times he had turned down promotions – the higher ranks, the increases in pay. Simply put, he didn't want them. As a Lieutenant in the Guardia di Finanza he had time for a family life: a loving wife, two children (one son, one daughter) of whom he was immensely proud, a comfortable and spacious apartment not far from the Fontana di Trevi, and most importantly he had been able to keep his head where he wanted it, in the thick of investigation. This current assignment had made little sense to him, until now.

Fontana di Trevi

Sitting beside Marchese, patiently searching data bases from headquarters, from the local Carabinieri, and from Interpol, Paolo Bandone was the Hardy to Marchese's Laurel. 

Laurel and Hardy

Thickset and entirely bald, Paolo cared little about his appearance. Ironically perhaps, his relaxed self-confidence attracted women of all shapes and sizes, poor and wealthy, ignorant and educated. He tolerated his attractiveness to women and on occasion used it to advantage, but was not ruled by it. At 38 he was a confirmed bachelor. The other thing about Bandone that seemed inconsistent with this hulking, muscular package was his fascination with the history of art – and not just with the art of Italy – he loved all art, and enjoyed nothing more than spending the evening sipping a glass of Sagrantino, a favourite Umbrian red, reading biographies of great artists, Verdi or Puccini playing in the background. The catalogue of his memory was staggering in size, incredibly detailed and accurate, and always readily accessible. In short, although he didn't look it, he was a brilliant cop. The Guardia were always on the lookout for intelligent young recruits with specialized knowledge that could be put to good use, and Bandone's career path had been much like Marchese's. He too was puzzled by the circumstances that had brought him here to partner with the Lieutenant.

"I think I've found something here."