A knock at the door announced the latter’s arrival. Corinna checked by looking through the spyglass inset in the armoured panel, then opened the door with a sigh. Her personal escort that morning was Beppe, a gangling, semi-handsome son of a bitch who, as always, tried to get familiar as they walked downstairs together, she in her dark tailored suit and sensible shoes, he in camouflaged battledress accessorized with a machine-gun suspended on a leather belt strung over his shoulder.

‘Beautiful day!’ was his opening line.

‘Yes.’

‘But not as beautiful as you, Signorina Nunziatella.’

‘That’ll do, Beppe.’

‘I’m sorry, dottoressa, but what do you expect? Here I am five hundred kilometres from home, stuck in a squalid barracks with a bunch of other jerks doing their military service, and risking my life every day to protect the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen! Have you ever heard of what they call “the Stockholm syndrome”, where the victims fall for their kidnappers? This is a similar thing. Because if you think about it, I’ve been kidnapped by the system, which you represent, dottoressa, so it’s not surprising that I’ve fallen for you like a ton of…’

But by now they had reached the front door, and Beppe had to attend to his duties. He activated the radio strapped into a pouch on his belt and exchanged cryptic and static-garbled phrases with his companions. Then he counted slowly to five, swung open the door and ushered Corinna urgently outside. The two other guards had taken up point positions to either side of the three Fiat saloons which had drawn up in front of the building — where no other vehicle was allowed to park, even momentarily — and were anxiously scanning the street in every direction, their automatic weapons at the ready.