‘You’re going native,’ he said through a bite of the pastry.

‘It’s just common sense,’ the woman replied, a little snappily. ‘They know all about us, but we haven’t the first idea about them.’

Zen finished his coffee and called for a glass of mineral water to wash down the sticky pastry.

‘If you start thinking like that, you’ll go mad.’

‘And if you don’t you’ll get killed.’

Zen snorted.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Carla. Neither of us is going to get killed. We’re not important enough.’

‘Not to be a threat, no. But we’re important enough to be a message.’

She pointed to the newspaper.

‘Like him.’

‘How do you mean?’

The woman did not answer. Zen finished his pastry and wiped his lips on a paper napkin tugged from its metal dispenser.

‘Shall we?’ he said, dropping a couple of banknotes on the counter.

Outside in Piazza Carlo Alberto, the Fera o Luni market was in full swing. Zen and his adopted daughter, Carla Arduini, had made this their meeting point from the moment that she had arrived in Sicily a month earlier, on a contract from her Turin computer firm to install a computer system for the Catania branch of the Direzione Investigated AntiMafia. It was roughly half-way between the central police station, where Zen worked, and the Palazzo di Giustizia where Carla was battling with the complexities of setting up a network designed to be both totally secure and interactive with other DIA branches in Sicily and elsewhere.