Читать книгу A Cold Flame: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked - Aidan Conway - Страница 14

“… which, over time, would radically reduce our dependence on oil and be a real step forward in reducing levels of atmospheric pollution linked to cancer in our cities and beyond. Besides that, the initial cost would soon be offset both by savings for the consumer and the provider. I have some figures here, if you don’t mind.”

Francesco began to reach for his briefcase leaning against the leg of his chair.

“That won’t be necessary, Dottor Anselmi,” the president of the commission said before Francesco had managed to extract the relevant file. “Really, time is against us, as always, but it was, I think we all agree, a most interesting presentation. Even if I’m not sure it’s what our friends in ItalOil would want to hear,” he added, leaning back and laughing out loud. The three other members gave knowing smiles and also nodded their approval as the president craned his neck slightly to make eye contact with each in turn.

The clerk too, who had been hunched over his papers recording the candidates’ names and cross-checking documentation and identity cards all morning, would now have his small increment of institutional glory.

“The results of the concorso,” he announced, “will be published at the end of the week on the university’s website.”

“Ah, yes, just one thing.” The sole female interviewer was scanning the first page of Francesco’s CV through her bifocals. “If I may, it says here you are fluent in English.”

“Yes,” Francesco replied.

“I was wondering, could you envisage overseeing a course, or courses, for the faculty in the medium of English? How would you go about organizing, for example, training the stuff?”

“I’m sorry?” Francesco replied.

“How would you train the stuff,” she repeated.

“The staff,” the president said with careful emphasis and exhibiting only minor irritation.

“Oh, sorry,” said Francesco.

It was the one he hadn’t prepared for.

“Well,” he began, buying time. A helicopter’s unmistakable whop-whop overhead and a swirling emergency siren beyond the drawn blinds took everyone’s attention hostage for a moment.

“Do go on, please,” the president enjoined Francesco.

“Well, I would first assess their competences and then put out a call for the most suitable candidates to fill the vacant positions.”

“And the staff not ‘up to the job’?” said the bespectacled interviewer.

Francesco knew he had to answer, but he was fumbling.

“They could be moved to positions better-suited to their competences, and then offered training, in the long term, to get them up to speed.”

“Ah. I see.” She turned to the president of the commission. “I think that really is all now.”

“Very well,” he replied. “And unless there are any other questions.”

But something told Francesco it probably wasn’t what they had wanted to hear. And then maybe none of it had been. And his English was better than hers by a country-fucking-mile. Yet she was sitting there.

There was a knock at the door. A minor office flunkey clutching a piece of paper popped his head round. He looked, apart from his general obsequiousness, more than a little shaken.

“Presidente Bonucci, Dottori, scusate. C’è una communicazione.”

Allowing his glasses to slide down his nose, Professor Bonucci scanned the note while conveying its salient points. “‘Major security alert in City of Rome. Possibility of further explosions. All universities, places of worship, public buildings and schools to remain on high alert until further notice. Senior management to evaluate the situation and assess the practicalities of executing evacuation or effecting security lockdown.’”

He looked up.

“Dottoresse e dottori, to use the popular contemporary lexicon, it would appear that we are ‘under attack’.”