Supernotes by Agent Kasper Page A

coast to the city of Rome. Every layer of earth in these parts represents a historical epoch, from the rape of the Sabine women to the Roman Empire to the vicissitudes of the House of Savoy. In 1943, Benito Mussolini was arrested at Villa Ada and taken away in an ambulance. The stones, the towering pines, and the centuries-old oaks have witnessed pages of history.
    A Carabinieri barracks is a perfect fit in here, Kasper thinks.
    The Talamo is home to the Special Operations Group, the ROS, for which Kasper has worked since it was officially established in 1990, when he was not much over thirty.
    The Talamo is where his superiors are. His past and present are there too, as well as—he hopes—his future.
    The men he’s to meet are waiting for him at an outside table. The subofficer escorting him stops a few meters away and says, “I’ll leave you here.”
    The general seems the same as always, serious and stern in his dark gray ministerial suit. He’s listening attentively to the colonel. The captain’s also following him, nodding slightly as he does. The three men focus on Kasper, and the conversation stops.
    Handshakes, a few polite phrases. The general gestures to Kasper to take a seat and says, “We may as well stay here. Later, if necessary, we’ll move upstairs.”
    The colonel and the captain nod. All Kasper has to do is sit down, drink some coffee, and speak when the time for speaking comes. He knows very well how these meetings work; for all their informality, they still involve military men and military affairs. If they “move upstairs,” it will be to the colonel’s office, where they’ll finalize the details of the proposed operation.
    The colonel concludes his explanation already in progress, something to do with an operation aimed at the laundering of Mafia money abroad. “Very well,” the general says emphatically, which is tantamount to saying, “Let’s change the subject.” He turns to Kasper, and with a little movement of his head, more like a father than like a superior officer, he asks, “How’s business down there at Sharky’s?”
    “We get a lot of traffic,” Kasper replies.
    “And your American partner?” the captain inquires.
    “Partners,” Kasper corrects him. “There are two of them.”
    “And they’re working out?”
    “They’re working out fine.”
    “They’re both with the Company?”
    “Only one of them.”
    “The one you call Clancy.”
    “Right, Clancy,” Kasper confirms. “The other partner used to work as a supplier for the United Nations. He’s been in Cambodia since the mid-1980s. Opening the bar in Phnom Penh was his idea.”
    “Sharky’s,” the captain says with a chuckle.
    “A good idea,” the colonel says comfortingly. “Phnom Penh’s becoming more and more interesting.”
    Kasper tries to think of something appropriate to say, but the general clears his throat and asks a question: “Before we talk about Cambodia, I’d like to know where we are with the Sinai operation. Am I mistaken, or are we at a standstill?”
    “Not exactly, sir.”
    “Not exactly,” the general repeats.
    “I think a brief overview would be helpful,” the colonel intervenes.
    This is just what Kasper was expecting.
    Operation Sinai has been under way for more than a year, ever since Kasper succeeded in making contact with Michael Savage.
    Savage is a drug dealer working out of Bangkok, an Irishman who exports cocaine from Colombia to Europe, chiefly Spain, and uses the money he makes to help out his friends in the IRA. Then there’s his plan to transfer his European drug distribution hub from Spain to Italy. His projects are ambitious. His connections are of the highest order. For many Americans of Irish ancestry who support the IRA, Savage is a point of reference, a strategic junction.
    Kasper was introduced to him by a Thai drug dealer named Wanchai, who had described Kasper to Savage as a good Italian guy, an ex-military man and a pilot willing to do anything