Outside, the fog was as persistent as ever. Gabriele dodged into the first doorway he came to and glanced back. No one emerged from the cafe he had just left. He walked slowly on, head down, seemingly intent on keeping his footing and avoiding obstacles. A chirpy clanging announced the arrival of another tram. It ground to a halt at the stop where he normally got off every morning. He waited until the group of commuters had dispersed and then inspected the street carefully. The row of shops on the ground floor of the big eighteenthcentury palazzo was beginning to open. They were mainly fashion and accessory outlets, with a jeweller’s, a hair salon and his own antiquarian bookshop interspersed. There were very few people about, and no conspicuous watchers, but he knew that that meant nothing. Realizing that he was rapidly becoming conspicuous himself, he turned left and started to walk around the block.

I’m no good at this, he thought. Never had been, never would be. He’d tried hard, he really had, but do what he might he’d never been a natural like Alberto, Nestore and poor Leonardo. ‘Not really officer material.’ He’d never forgotten that comment. It had stung, even though an officer was the last thing he’d wanted to be, if he’d been honest with himself. And it had made no difference. Strings were pulled and buttons pushed, and he got his commission just the same, thanks to the influence of his father, who of course had never let him forget the fact.

But that martinet at the military academy had been right. He wasn’t officer material. He could follow orders as faithfully as a dog, but he couldn’t give them in such a way as to inspire the same unthinking obedience in others. Or even in himself. Above all, he lacked the initiative to improvise successfully when things got tough and there was no superior around to tell him what to do. Such as now.