Viale had been his point man with the SISDE since Falcone had been promoted to inspector ten years before. In theory that meant they liaised with one another on an equal basis from time to time, when the two services needed to share information. In reality Falcone couldn’t remember a single occasion on which Viale or any other of the grey men, as he thought of them, was of real assistance. There’d been plenty of calls from Viale, fishing for information, asking for a favour. Usually Falcone had complied, because he knew what the cost of reluctance would be: a call upstairs and an icy interrogation from his superiors, asking what the problem was. Before he was promoted, he’d believed the grey men’s power was on the wane. That was in the early nineties, when the Cold War was over and terrorism seemed a thing of the past. A time of optimism, as he saw it now, when a younger Falcone, still married, still with some sense of hope, was able to believe the world was becoming a smarter place, one that grew a little wiser, a little more safe, with every passing year.

Then the circle turned again. New enemies, faceless ones with no particular flag to identify them, emerged out of nowhere. While the police and the Carabinieri struggled to hold the fort against a rising tide of crime using increasingly meagre and conventional resources, the funding went to the grey men, filling their coffers for operations that never came under any public scrutiny. There was a shift in the moral fulcrum. For some in government the end came to justify the means. This was, Falcone knew, the state of the world he would probably have to work with for the rest of his professional life. That knowledge didn’t make it any easier to bear. Nor was he flattered by the grey men’s apparent belief that they saw something in Leo Falcone they wanted.

“Leo,” Viale said quietly, “I have to ask. I know we’ve been through this before. But still… it puzzles me.”

“I don’t want another job.” Falcone sighed, hearing a note of testiness in his voice. “Can’t we just leave it at that?”

They’d been trying to recruit him off and on for a good four years or more. Falcone was never quite certain how genuine Viale’s offer was. It was a standard SISDE trick to hold out lures to men in the conventional force. It flattered them, made them feel there could be a future somewhere else if life got too difficult in the Questura.

Viale downed the grappa and ordered another. The waiter, who was handing around a very old-fashioned sponge cake as dessert, took the glass and returned with it filled immediately. Viale was a regular here, Falcone guessed. Maybe he had booked the dinner. Maybe he was the boss. SISDE officers never said much about their rank. By rights Falcone was supposed to be matched against someone near his own position in the hierarchy. He didn’t know Viale well. Like so many SISDE officers, the man was infuriatingly anonymous: a dark suit, a nondescript pale face, a head of black hair, dyed in all probability, and a demeanour that embraced many smiles and not a touch of warmth or humour. Falcone couldn’t even put a finger on his age. Viale was of medium height, slightly built, with a distinct paunch. Yet Falcone felt sure there was something more serious about the man than he revealed. Viale didn’t sit behind the same kind of desk Falcone did, nor did he have to tackle the same, incessant trinity of problems: detection, intelligence and resources. Viale was, somehow, a man who made his own life and there, Leo Falcone thought, was something to envy.

Viale put a slight hand on Falcone’s arm and looked directly into his face. There was northern blood in him, Falcone decided. It showed in the flat, emotionless landscape of his anonymous face, and those grey-blue eyes, cold, mirthless.

“No, we can’t just leave it at that, Leo. Just say yes now and I can push through the paperwork straightaway. You could be sitting behind a new desk before the end of January.”

Falcone laughed and watched the snow again. It made him feel good somehow. It reminded him of his parting words to every man he’d sent out into the city that night, ordering them, for once, to disturb his private time on the slightest excuse.

“I’ll think about it,” Falcone replied. “Just like last time.”

Viale cast him a vile glance and muttered a low, obscene curse. Viale was, Leo realized, more than a little drunk.

“Don’t fuck with me, Leo,” Viale murmured. “Don’t play games.”

“It’s always been one of my rules,” Falcone answered calmly, “not to fuck with the grey men. It’s bad for your career.”

Viale snorted, then casually stuffed a piece of sponge cake into his mouth, despatching crumbs and sugar down the front of his black jacket. “You think you’re above all this, don’t you? Sitting there in your grubby little office. Sending out grubby little men to chase people you probably can’t put in jail anyway, even if you catch them.”

“It’s a job someone’s got to do,” Falcone answered, then looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. Perhaps it was late enough to make a polite exit without offending anyone except Viale, who was offended enough as it was.

“It’s a job?” Viale snarled. “Jesus Christ, Leo.”

The grey man cast his eyes around the room, then shook his head. Falcone did the same. Most of the individuals there were getting stinking drunk. It was tradition. It was Christmas.

Viale barked at the waiter. The man came back with a flask of grappa. Viale poured out a couple, just for them, as if no one else in the room existed.

“This is a hundred a bottle and I’m paying,” he muttered, then nodded at the tiny window, now blocked with snow. “Even you need something warm inside on a night like this.”

Falcone took the glass, sipped at the fiery drink, then put it on the table. Alcohol had never been his thing.

Viale watched him. “You don’t like joining in, do you? You think you can get through all this shit on your own, so long as your luck holds and you keep getting good marks every time they come to check the statistics. What’s a man like you messing around with that crap for?”

Targets, benchmarks, goals… Falcone didn’t like the jargon of the modern police force any more than the rest of his colleagues. But unlike most he saw a point behind the paperwork. Everyone needed some kind of standard by which their efforts could be measured internally, and publicly if need be. That was anathema to people like Viale, who could screw up for years and never get found out unless a rare, scrupulous civil servant or politician got on their back. That thought jogged a memory from somewhere, but Falcone couldn’t nail it down.

He glanced at his watch again, then pushed the glass away. The raw smell of the grappa was overwhelming. “Say what you want to say, Filippo. It’s late. I want a good night’s sleep. With this weather the Questura’s going to be short of people tomorrow. Maybe we’ll have to help out uniform or traffic.”

“Traffic!” Viale snapped. “Why the hell would you want to waste your time on that?”

“I believe it’s something to do with being a public servant,” Falcone replied dryly.

Viale waved the glass of clear liquid at him. “And I’m not, huh? How do you know?”

“I don’t, Filippo. That’s the point.” Falcone shifted awkwardly. He didn’t want to upset this man any more than he had already. Viale had influence, power over him perhaps. But he didn’t want to prolong this difficult interview either. “Shouldn’t we discuss this some other time? During the day. When we both feel”-he couldn’t suppress a glance at the carafe of grappa-“more ready to talk sense.”

Viale’s immobile face flushed. “I’m amazed you think you have the time.”

Falcone remained silent, waiting for the rest.

“Think about it, Leo. You’re forty-eight. Has anyone asked you to sit the commissario interview recently?”

Falcone shrugged. He hadn’t even considered promotion of late. Life had been too busy.