The noise of the traffic grew, becoming a wall of sound that seemed to press against the bar's windows. But inside, in the stale smell of coffee and fear, the silence remained intact, sealed by Martinez's last words.
Valesi didn't answer immediately. He turned, slowly, and looked out the window. A yellow Fiat 126 rattled past, driven by a man singing at the top of his lungs. An elderly woman pushed an empty shopping cart. Normal life. Roman life. The contrast was so violent it was dizzying.
"A message," he repeated, testing the words. "For whom? For the two of us? Or for all those who... remain?"
Martinez stepped back from the counter. Her body was a taut line, ready to spring, but without a direction. "For anyone who is watching. To prove they can do it. Whenever they want. With whomever they want." She ran a hand through her hair, a brief, nervous gesture. "Tonio wasn't a threat. He was a frightened witness. They took him to show that the rules are theirs."The rules," muttered Valesi. "So far the only rule seemed to be 'not born in Roma'. Now we have a new one: 'don't ask uncomfortable questions'."Or it's the same rule, just applied more... selectively." The FBI agent moved closer to the shop window, scrutinizing the street. Her profile against the light was sharp. "We need to get out of here. This place is contaminated."
Valesi nodded. Contaminated. Exactly. The air itself seemed to hold the echo of the disappearance. He picked up his jacket from the hook. "My office. At the police station. It's a pigsty, but at least the walls haven't seen anyone vanish. Yet."
They stepped out into the blinding sun of via Arenula. The chaos of morning Roma hit them like a wave – honking horns, engines, market chatter, the smell of exhaust fumes and warm bread. Martinez stiffened, her eyes snapping from one face to another, assessing, cataloging. Looking for danger in every person born in the wrong city.
Inspector Neri was waiting for them at the entrance to the police station, standing like a boulder amid the disorderly flow of officers. His normally placid face was gray with fatigue.
"Agent." His voice was a deep rumble. "All hell's broken loose. The phone won't stop. Embassies, ministries, relatives from abroad... and now the journalists have caught a whiff of something. They're asking about 'possible demographic anomalies'." He widened his eyes. "Demographic anomalies. I ask you."Keep everyone out, Claudio," said Valesi, walking past him and heading for the stairs. "No statements. If the prefect insists, tell him I'm in a meeting with the mayor."The mayor," repeated Neri, following them. "He's problem number two. He's called three times. Says he needs to speak with you urgently. He used the word 'stagecraft'."
Valesi sighed. They went up to the second floor, into the narrow, poorly lit corridors that led to his office. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and disinfectant.
Valesi's office was a monument to controlled chaos. Boxes of never-filed folders, walls papered with city maps dotted with colored pins, an ashtray so full it defied the laws of physics. Martinez stopped on the threshold, assessing the disorder with a mix of professional horror and a hint of fascination.
"Is this where you develop your theories?" she asked, carefully avoiding a pile of newspapers threatening to collapse.
"This is where I try to remember where I put my cigarettes," replied Valesi, rummaging in a drawer. He found a half-crushed pack. "Sit down. If you can find a free chair."
Neri remained in the doorway, his bulk almost completely filling it. ", about the bar matter... we've collected the personal effects. Nothing useful. The phone's call log only shows local calls from the last week. The owner, a certain Marcello, born in Testaccio, is in shock. Says Tonio was a good kid, a bit unlucky."Unlucky is an understatement," muttered Martinez. She had sat on the edge of a chair, her back straight. "Valesi, we need to establish a logical perimeter. The phenomenon has a definite geographic component: Roma. A temporal component: the initial event Friday night, and now these 'targeted disappearances'. A biographical component: the place of birth." She counted the points on her fingers. "We're missing the 'how' and the 'why'. And above all, the 'who'."The 'who'..." Valesi lit a cigarette, the smoke joining the gray patina on the ceiling. "If it is a 'who'. It could be a 'what'. A force. A... condition."Forces don't leave messages," she retorted, firmly. "That was an act of communication. Of power. Someone is watching us, and has decided to raise the stakes." She looked at her watch. An almost imperceptible ticking seemed to fill the room. "My time is running out. If the twenty-four-hour window is real, I have just over twelve hours."
Neri looked at her, confused. "Excuse me, agent? What window?"Never mind, Claudio," Valesi cut him off. Then, turning to Martinez: "So we need to move fast. And we need to do something whoever is watching doesn't expect."Such as?"We stop looking for who disappeared. We start looking for who shouldn't be here, but still is."
Martinez furrowed her brow. Neri seemed to be making a considerable mental effort.
"Explain," said the FBI agent.
Valesi walked over to one of the maps on the wall. It was an old plan of Roma, the boundaries of the XIV Augustan regions traced in red ink. "All the missing are 'foreigners'. Born outside. Okay. But Roma is full of foreigners. Tourists, students, diplomats, businesspeople. Thousands. Tens of thousands. The Friday night event took many, but not all. Why? Was there a selection? Was it random? Or..." he placed a finger on the map, on the heart of the Campus Martius, "... were some spared?"Spared," repeated Martinez, the word coming out with difficulty. "By whom? For what reason?"I don't know. But if we want a clue, we need to find a 'foreigner' who is still here. One who, according to the rule, should have vanished Friday night, but didn't. And maybe didn't vanish last night either, while they were taking Tonio." He turned toward them. "We need to find an anomaly within the anomaly."
Neri cleared his throat. ", it's like looking for a needle in a haystack, but if the haystack is as big as Roma and we don't even know what the needle looks like."We have a starting point," said Valesi. "The initial disappearance reports. We filtered them by place of birth, but we only reported the absences. We need to cross-reference them with all residence permits, hotel registries, embassy lists. Find the names of those who were supposed to be here, and verify if they still are."
Martinez nodded, a glimmer of professional hope in her eyes. "It's a huge job. It requires resources, access to protected databases..."The mayor has the resources," said Valesi, putting out his cigarette. "And he's also desperately in need of looking like a man of action. Let's go make him do something useful, for once."
The Sala della Lupa on the Capitoline Hill was cold, despite the sun beating on the high windows. Aurelio Borghese was not alone.
Conti held a thick folder in his hand, his fingers drumming its edge in a nervous rhythm. Borghese, standing in front of his monumental desk, had the air of someone about to take the stage in a Greek tragedy.
"Valesi! Finally!" the mayor began, opening his arms in a broad gesture. "We were examining the... the numbers. Dr. Conti has some findings. Shocking."Mayor," Valesi nodded, entering with Martinez and Neri. "Dr. Conti is the right person. We need his numbers."
Conti looked up, his eyes magnified by his glasses shifting from Valesi to Martinez, the FBI agent who evidently had not yet dissolved, with a mix of curiosity and fear. "The data is... unequivocal, yet impossible. The event on Friday night affected 97.3% of individuals residing in Roma who were born outside the municipal territory."97.3%," Martinez repeated. "Not 100%."Exactly." Conti opened the folder, extracting a pie chart crammed with writing. "There is a statistical residue. About 2.7%. People born outside Roma but still present. We started cross-referencing registry data with tax and utility records. Most are explainable cases: registration errors, dual citizenships with uncertainties about the place of birth..."And the others?" asked Valesi, moving closer.
Conti swallowed. "About fifty cases, maybe even fewer, that resist every verification. People who, according to every document, should have been... removed. And yet they show as active. Utilities paid yesterday. Phone calls made this morning. Workplace badge swipes recorded an hour ago."
A shiver ran through Valesi. He had suspected, but hearing it confirmed was another thing. "Names. Addresses."It's... delicate," Borghese interjected, his theatrical voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone. "Some of these names are... figures of a certain standing. Businessmen. A cardinal of the Curia, born in Siena. The director of a major museum, a Florentine. If we spread the news that they were 'spared'... we'll be facing a lynching, Valesi. Populism in its rawest form!"
Martinez ignored the mayor, staring at Conti. "These residual cases. Is there a pattern? Age? Profession? Income? Something they have in common?"
Conti shook his head, dejected. "I looked for every correlation. Nothing. They are a random sample, but... not random. It's a contradiction in terms. As if the selection had followed a logic that escapes our tools."Or as if someone had made exceptions," murmured Valesi. He turned to Borghese. "Mayor, we need full access to this data. And a discreet team to verify at least some of these cases in person. Immediately."
Borghese ran a hand over his perfect hair. "Valesi, do you understand what we risk? If people find out there's an 'immune list'..."We risk more if we don't find out why it exists," Valesi interrupted him, his voice sharper than usual. "Agent Martinez is right. Someone is sending messages. And the last one was written with a witness's blood. Do we want to wait for the next one?"
The mayor's gaze wavered, shifting from concern for his image to genuine terror. He nodded, briefly. "Do it. But with absolute discretion. Neri, you coordinate the men. Conti, provide everything necessary." Then he looked at Martinez, almost with pity. "Agent... I wish you good luck. Truly."
They left the room, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the marble. In the corridor, Conti handed Neri a USB stick, his hands trembling slightly. "Everything is here. The first three cases, the ones with the clearest addresses. Please... be careful."
As Neri walked away to organize the teams, Martinez stopped in front of a large window overlooking Piazza del Campidoglio. The city stretched out at her feet, golden, indifferent.
"A cardinal. A museum director. A businessman." She listed, without turning around. "They don't seem chosen at random. They seem chosen for their... value."Value to whom?" asked Valesi, moving closer to her.
"To the city. Perhaps." She turned, and in her eyes Valesi saw the countdown ignite in fiery letters. "Perhaps it's not a punishment. Or not only. Perhaps it's a... cure. A cleansing. And these here are the useful parts they decided to keep."
The idea was so horrifying, and yet so perfectly logical, that for a moment they remained silent.
Then, Valesi's phone vibrated. It was Neri.
"Alpha team is at the first address. An apartment in Prati. The name is Arturo Silvestri, born in Milan, architect." Neri's voice was strangely flat. "The apartment is open. There's no one. But..."But?"There's something. They say... it's better if you come see for yourself. And bring the agent."
Martinez met Valesi's gaze. Without a word, they headed for the exit, the weight of the clock marking time and of the city selecting its inhabitants, step by step, growing heavier.