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conspiratorially.
    Cristiano tried to get up, but his father held him down with his arm. ‘Let me go! Let me go! You bastard …’ he protested.
    â€˜Only if you give me a kiss,’ said Rino, proffering his cheek.
    Reluctantly Cristiano kissed him again, and Rino yelled out in disgust: ‘It’s true! I do have a pansy son!’ and he started tickling him.
    Cristiano giggled and tried to break free, gasping: ‘Please … Please … Please … Stop it …’
    At last he managed to escape. He retreated from the bed, tucking his T-shirt into his trousers, and picked up his rucksack. As he went downstairs Rino shouted after him: ‘Hey, that was a good job you did last night.’
13
    Forty-five-year-old Danilo Aprea was sitting at a table in the Bar Boomerang finishing his third grappa of the morning.
    He too was tall, but unlike Quattro Formaggi he was large and had a stomach as swollen as that of a drowned cow. Not that he was exactly fat; his muscles were firm and his skin as white as marble. Every part of him was square: his fingers, his ankles, his feet, his neck. He had a cubic skull, a wall-like forehead and two deep-set hazel eyes on either side of a broad nose. A thin strip of beard framed his perfectly shaven cheeks. He wore gold-rimmed Ray-Ban glasses and his crew-cut hair was dyed mahogany red.
    He too, like Quattro Formaggi, had a winter outfit, but unlike his friend’s, his was always immaculately washed and ironed. Achecked flannel shirt. A hunter’s waistcoat with lots of pockets. Jeans with a pleated front. Trainers. And, attached to his belt, a pouch for a Swiss Army knife and his mobile phone.
    He economised on everything else, but not on his appearance. He had his beard trimmed and his hair dyed once a fortnight by the barber.
    He was waiting for Quattro Formaggi, who, just for a change, was late. Not that Danilo was particularly bothered. In the bar it was nice and warm and he was in a strategic position. The table, by the front window, overlooked the street. Danilo held the Gazzetta dello Sport up in front of him and now and then took a glance outside.
    Directly opposite was the Credito Italiano dell’Agricoltura. He saw people going in and out through the metal detectors and the private guard outside the entrance talking into his mobile.
    That guard really pissed him off. With his bullet-proof jacket, his emblazoned beret, his gleaming pistol, his sunglasses, his square jaw and his chewing-gum, who the fuck did he think he was? Tom Cruise?
    But the thing that really interested Danilo Aprea was not the guard, but what was behind him: the ATM.
    That was his objective. It was the most frequently used cashpoint in the village, as this bank had more customers than any other in Varrano, so it must be crammed with money.
    There were two CCTV cameras positioned above the machine. One to the right and one to the left, so as to cover the whole surrounding area. And no doubt they were connected to a set of video-recorders inside the bank. But that wasn’t a problem.
    In actual fact there wasn’t the slightest need for Danilo to sit there watching the movement in front of the bank. He had already worked out the plan down to the smallest detail. But watching that cash machine made him feel better.
    The plan for the raid on the Credito dell’Agricoltura had been hatched six months before.
    Danilo had been at the barber’s, and leafing through the crime pages of the newspaper he had read that in a village near Cagliari a gang of crooks driving a four-by-four had smashed through the wall of a bank and carried off its cash machine.
    While his hair was being dyed the story kept buzzing around in his head; this could be the turning point in his life.
    The plan was quite simple.
    â€˜Simplicity is the basis of every well-done thing,’ his father used to tell him.
    And it was easy to put into practice. The night in Varrano was so quiet that if you