A few weeks later, a man turned himself in of his own accord at a carabinieri barracks, saying that it was he who had originally taken the photograph of the German's little platoon and now he was afraid he might be killed. He had no evidence to support his claim. He said that he had been enrolled in the platoon by the German himself, that he did not know the German's real identity, and that the only part he had played was that of supplying food for the prisoners. The only contribution he offered to the investigators was an explanation of the shoes hung around the neck.

"It was our nickname, 'Two Shoes,'" he told Spinelli during an interview. "Because we had our feet in two shoes, Italy and America, get it? And the rule was that if we did something that might attract the attention of the authorities, we just needed to tie together two shoes on the scene of whatever we had done, so whoever it concerned would get the message and cover us up."

Whether what he was saying was the truth or merely the fantasies of one of the many lunatics involved in the case had not yet been established. Digging into his past, the investigators learned that he'd been dismissed from the armed services because he was a drug addict. The man said that was a decoy, a cover-up.

The German was still in jail, keeping his mouth closed, and not much progress had been made in figuring out who he actually was. No one came forward to identify him, aside from a number of people who had met him in any of his numerous fictional identities. Since not even his nationality was known, he was given books and periodicals in a number of different European languages, and he seemed to read and comprehend them with equal facility.

In the meantime, an American pharmaceutical company was accused of having supplied experimental medicines to Tirelli, and the CEO defended himself by claiming that the pharmaceuticals had been stolen and the theft had been properly reported to the authorities. He suspected a case of industrial espionage and was disconcerted to learn the deplorable uses to which they had been put. The fact that the founder of the company was one of the chemists who had taken part in Project Bluebird in the 1950s could only be viewed as an unfortunate coincidence.

Colomba and Dante remained in constant contact. He regained his tranquility before she regained the use of her jaw, and he persuaded her to spend Christmas Eve with him at one of his favorite spots: the Bagni Vecchi of Bormio, a thermal spa and hotel in the province of Sondrio where Dante liked to go for massages.

The room was virtually all glass and looked out onto the outdoor swimming pool, fed by hot springs; Colomba and Dante dove into that water with immense pleasure on December 23, looking out over the snowy panorama, enjoying the contrast between the icy wind and the heat of the water.

Colomba's scars had almost disappeared, and anyway the other guests swimming alongside had other things to look at than the marks left by bullets that had come to rest just a sixteenth of an inch from her kidney.

Dante floated on his back, his mouth still filled with the taste of the green coffee he'd filled his suitcase with. He considered it to be the queen of regenerative herbal infusions. "Any news from Santini?"

Colomba lifted her head out of the stream of hot water pouring out of a pipe above the edge of the pool. "He's back on regular duty. He says he still walks with a limp, and as far as he's concerned, he doesn't want to see either of us for the next millennium."

"If you talk to him, tell him the feeling is mutual." He sprayed water out of his mouth like a little boy. "What about you? What have you decided? Going back into uniform?"

"I don't know yet. Curcio seems like a good guy, but . . ." She shook her head. "I'll consider it, anyway. I still have a few more days of convalescence."

"Well, I've decided to keep my name."

Colomba smiled. "Well, that's good to hear." Among the human remains in the plastic drums, a match had been found to Annibale Valle's DNA. That had given rise to a legal nightmare, a labyrinth through which Minutillo was trying to find his way so that Dante, the living Dante, could find grounds to avail himself of a court order that authorized him to use his mother's surname, a mother who was no longer his, a surname that was no longer his. In the end, Valle had offered to adopt him and Dante had accepted. Legal proceedings were already under way.

"If I had decided to change my name, I would have picked Leo. What do you think? Or Leonidas."

"Why not Rambo?"

Dante snickered. "Or else do like Prince, you know, and have no name. Just call myself by a symbol."

"A coffee bean."

"Something like that. But then I realized I was used to Dante." He went over to the hydromassage and let the water slide down his back. "I mean, also because my real name . . . what are the odds I'll ever know that?"

"Better than the odds you had of ever getting out of that pit alive," Colomba pointed out.

Dante sprayed her. "I hate you when you're such an optimist."

She grabbed the side of the pool and hoisted herself up. Dante tried not to look; half the men present were staring, though.

"I'm going to get a shower," said Colomba. "See you at dinner."

"Okay."

Dante let himself fall back into the water and floated on his back until he heard the sound of his new cell phone ringing. The sound was coming from the pocket of his bathrobe, lying by the side of the pool. He swam over and grabbed it without leaving the water. The screen said: "Unknown caller."

Dante hesitated. Since his recovery he'd received hundreds of phone calls from people who wanted to track down a relative, give him their best wishes, or insult him for some unknown reason. So he'd changed his number and given the new one only to his closest friends, and they all knew that he didn't answer to unrecognized numbers. But he was on vacation and he was feeling benevolent. He took the call and asked who it was.

A male voice without any particular regional accent replied. "Are you the man who calls himself Dante Torre?"

"Who's speaking?" Dante asked again.

The man on the other end of the line seemed to hesitate. Then he said, "I shouldn't be phoning you. You aren't even supposed to know I exist. But I couldn't help myself. Not after I heard about you. About what happened to you. I just wanted to tell you that I'm happy you're all right. It was a shock for me to learn that you were still alive."

At first, Dante assumed that it was just another of the many nutcases who had tormented him over the years, and he wondered how this one had managed to find his phone number. But there was a sincerity in the man's voice that prevented him from hanging up. "And just why should you care?" he asked.

After another pause, speaking quietly as if he were afraid someone might hear him, the man replied, "Because I'm your brother."

Dante heard a shuffle and click-then just the sound of his own breathing.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

I changed a few abbreviations of Italian law enforcement and armed forces agencies in order to afford myself greater freedom in my descriptions of the way they operate, and I also took certain liberties with unit headquarters, barracks, addresses, and other such details.

I've taken even greater liberties with the geography and topography of Rome and Cremona. The building where Santiago lived doesn't exist, any more than Lake Comello exists, though the lake I described does resemble a body of water not far off that I visited and studied. The Vivaro mountain meadows were also adapted as needed. In other cases, however, I limited myself to changing the names, but the places are real and recognizable.

If you wish to know more about MKUltra, there are plenty of books, among them The Search for the "Manchurian Candidate": The CIA and Mind Control: The Secret History of the Behavioral Sciences, by John D. Marks, and Mass Control: Engineering Human Consciousness, by Jim Keith, as well as a vast fount of information online. There are, of course, people who say it's all nonsense, but you be the judge. The Italian branch of the experiments, at any rate, is pure speculation on my part.

I'd like to thank my editor, Carlo Carabba, and my agent, Laura Grandi, for having worked closely with me in the final phases of writing this novel; without them, I never could have done it. I also thank Giulia Ichino for having been the first to read it; Emanuela Cocco for the fact checking; Licia Troisi for explaining how you dive in a wet suit; Dino Abbrescia for his advice about campers; the managing editor of Mondadori Fiction, Fabiola Riboni, and the editor Paola Gerevini for their careful handling of the text; and Yulia Buneeva and Piero Frabetti for their invaluable pointers. Also, great thanks to my magnificent English translator, Antony Shugaar, and the team at my American publisher, Scribner, most especially my editor, Rick Horgan; his assistant, David Lamb; and art director Jaya Miceli. Last of all, I'd like to thank Sabrina Annoni for stubbornly encouraging me.

And, of course, you readers, for this trip we've taken together.

MORIS PUCCIO.

SANDRONE DAZIERI is the bestselling author of eight novels and more than fifty screenplays. Kill the Father, the first in a planned series featuring Colomba Caselli and Dante Torre, is his American debut.

end.