Old Enemies

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘At least ask your boss when he gets back, will you?’ Ruari said.

  ‘Him?’ Suddenly Cosmin’s mood had darkened, the high spirits replaced by a sneer. ‘Bastard!’

  Even locked away down in the cellar Ruari had heard the arguments and raised voices. They were getting more frequent. His jailers sounded like sled dogs snarling over who should get the first bite of the carcass. Ruari might not be the only one to get chunks taken out of him, and that thought gave him heart.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble,’ Ruari lied.

  ‘What trouble?’ Cosmin roared.

  ‘You know, like last time . . .’ Ruari stroked his nose, but the Romanian needed no reminding.

  ‘That ugly bastard touch me again and I deal with him, you wait and see, so good he never screw another sheep, not ever! I am boss man here, not him. You hear that, Little Shit?’ Cosmin raged, shaking his fist as though he had been accused of weakness. He turned and stomped back up the stairs, slamming the door, but he left the light on.

  The rats were enjoying an unexpected feast when the door opened again. Toma brought down a towel soaked in warm water and a supply of fresh bandage. He stood over Ruari while the boy did his best to clean himself up. The Romanian appeared agitated, kept glancing at the open door as though listening for the return of the South Africans, and disappeared back upstairs as quickly as he could, taking the towel with him. Not everyone seemed as confident as Cosmin about who was running the show.

  Trieste. A city of aquamarine tints and azure skies that gazes out across the waters of the Adriatic in search of something it appears to have lost. It has a melancholy air, like that of an ageing spinster remembering a long-lost lover and living in the hope that one day he will reappear over the horizon. In the meantime she is not certain what she wants – except that she doesn’t want to be Venice, which lies seventy miles along the coast. In the view of Triestines, Venice has thrown away her honour and become a tart. So what if she draws the eye and the crowds? Trieste is highly disapproving, and quietly jealous. And when the blossom is but a faded memory and the leaves have begun to fall, and the grey streaks of winter take hold of the skies, Trieste sits with her back against the Carso, her shoulders hunched and her shawl wrapped tightly around her as she waits for the ferocious Bora wind that charges down off the limestone plateau with such force that it can knock over trams and sweep life off the streets.

  Trieste is a complex community. It uses several languages, contains many nationalities, and has been ruled by Austrians, Germans, Yugoslavs, and for a short while was once even nominally an independent city state, and all that crammed into the past hundred years, but now, and for the moment, it is part of Italy. Yet much of it remains illusory. Trieste was the dividing line of the Cold War, the seam of the Iron Curtain so famously described by Churchill with his gravelly voice as stretching from Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, the frontier between Europe east and west, always on the fold in the map, where Latin civilization runs out of breath and disappears beneath the Balkans.

  It has a main square, the Piazza dell’Unità, a construction of fine Middle European temperament overlooking the sea, where every hour two bronze figures on top of the City Hall are spun into motion to strike the passing of time on a great bell, which can be heard inside the Questura, the police headquarters that sits directly behind the City Hall. It had been dark for several hours when the sounds reached into the office of Inspector Francesco D’Amato of the Squadra Mobile, the Italian equivalent of Britain’s CID. He was in his early forties, on the small side of average with colouring that suggested he came from the south, hair that was beginning to lose its black sheen, sloping shoulders and a face that rarely relaxed, as if he were constantly studying a passage from the Bible. He was almost too carefully dressed, in the manner of most urban Italians, yet his office was informal to the point of verging on the unkempt, dominated by a dark wooden desk with two unfashionable armchairs, an old television and a glass-fronted bookcase packed with tired volumes that gave the impression of not having been opened in years. The paintwork was scratched, the walls crowded with police badges, framed certificates, photos and mementos of D’Amato’s many trips abroad during his twenty years of service. It was a practical, unpretentious room, but it also contained another accessory of which the inspector was inordinately proud – Simona Popescu, his secretary. The two of them made what he thought was a productive team, since he was conscientious and she was efficient and flexible. There was also the point that working with Simona kept him in the office when otherwise he might have been losing himself in some bar. She was sitting there now, in one of the armchairs, taking notes, her legs crossed, her thigh generously exposed, lips pursed in concentration. And her breasts were rising and falling, like a pump powering up his lust. She wasn’t Italian but an immigrant, like so many others in this frontier town, and had worked in the Questura for less than a year, yet she had made her way rapidly from the secretarial pool in the basement all the way up to the second floor. She’d even done shifts for the Chief of Police himself and had developed quite a reputation: reliable, well educated, excellent shorthand and exceptional ankles. In a city where so many young Triestines moved elsewhere in search of more exhilarating challenges, girls like Simona had little trouble finding work and D’Amato was delighted to have her – except, that is, he hadn’t had her, not in the way he dreamed of almost every night. And that was becoming a problem. D’Amato, like many other senior police officers in Trieste, was on secondment, transferred from his home in a small southern town for a three- or four-year stretch to combat the endemic corruption that might all too easily take hold when police and criminals are born on the same streets. Good pay, promotion prospects, but challenging in the long watches of the night when home is a long way away and you’ve left your wife and family behind to avoid uprooting the kids from their schools and friends. A weekend back with them every month, that was all. Mother of God it hurt, in all sorts of ways.

  Simona recrossed her legs, her skirt rustling on her thigh. She watched as D’Amato’s eyes crawled up her ankles. He uttered something indistinct, she asked him to repeat it, pencil poised, and he came out from behind his desk, that dull institutional slab of furniture with its chrome-framed family photos and piles of too-neatly sorted papers, until he was standing beside her, flicking his finger as he did when he was nervous. There was a bulge beneath his belt, she could see he was stiff, and she struggled to suppress a laugh. He’d propositioned her before, touched her, like many men in the Questura, but that was as far as she’d allowed him to go. Now he sank to his knees beside her with a weird, helpless look on his face, placed his hand inside her blouse and groaned. Simona was twenty-two, was born out of grinding poverty and had always known that her rise from the basement to the second floor wasn’t simply because she was good with the paperwork. She also felt sorry for Francesco, lonely sap. So she didn’t object as he began loosening her buttons.

  ‘Someone might come in,’ she whispered.

  ‘I locked the door.’ His lips followed his fingertips, marking a trail towards her nipple.

  She’d known what to expect when he’d asked her to stay late, that’s why she’d already discarded her underwear. He gasped when he saw. Now she settled back into the armchair, hooked her legs over its faded arms, and closed her eyes as he started grunting. She’d come a long way since she’d left home. Her father wouldn’t approve, of course, but she thought her mother might understand. The womenfolk had learned over many generations that they had to be flexible in order to survive. That’s the way it had always been, back home in Romania.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Chombo was surprised but naturally delighted by the invitation. It required him to take a flight to Johannesburg in South Africa, but that took less than two hours. Worth it, in the circumstances. Charley Ebinger, the US President’s National Security Adviser, was in town and wanted to see him – him, Moses Chombo, the soon-to-be strong man of Zi
mbabwe. It seemed like a rite of passage; instead of Chombo flattening his nose up against the windows of power trying to peer in, one of the most powerful men in the world was opening the door, had issued an urgent invitation, would ‘intersect with him’ at the airport, to use the hilariously bureaucratic language of the US embassy. Yet however clumsy the wording, it was a request Chombo had no wish to refuse, even though he’d been instructed that the meeting must remain totally confidential and that if any rumours of such a meeting were to leak out the Americans would deny it had ever taken place. The United States had no wish to be accused of interfering with the electoral process in Zimbabwe. But none of that mattered to Chombo. He was on his way.

  Chombo’s aircraft, commandeered from Air Zimbabwe, drew to a halt in a quiet corner of Tambo International, away from the main terminals. The night air was thinner than in Harare, sweeter, easier to breathe, and the American’s black four-wheel-drive limousine was waiting, its tail lights shining brightly in the darkness as Chombo descended the steps. A security man held the door of Ebinger’s car for him, and closed it behind him with a muffled thud, like the sealing of a vacuum chamber.

  ‘Mr Chombo, good evening. Glad you could spare the time,’ Ebinger said as the African settled into the seat. They were surrounded by thickly padded leather and wood, but behind, beneath and above it, the African knew, lay military-grade armour with windows so thick they could stop a mortar round. They were also darkened, no one would see. It irritated Chombo that Ebinger referred to him by his name rather than by his title. He would have preferred to be addressed as ‘Mr President’ or even ‘Your Excellency’, but that would come, and soon, in weeks, after the election. He must try to show a little patience.

  Ebinger pushed a button on the console in the arm of the seat and a screen rose to separate them from the driver and guard up front. Chombo’s fingers brushed idly across the leather and walnut, he wondered where he was being taken – somewhere to eat, he assumed, at this hour of the evening. Yes, a frank discussion and a fine dinner. He had prepared a list of firm requests – he didn’t want to call them demands – to put to the American in exchange for whatever it was he wanted. Mining rights to the copper or platinum, he suspected, and Ebinger would have to do well to match let alone exceed what was on offer from the Chinese, but it was a competitive world and Chombo was willing to be flexible – so flexible that he decided he would add a limousine to his list, one just like this, one that befitted the role of president. He smiled to himself, yet his sense of well-being was not to last.

  ‘I hope you’ll understand if we have this little conversation in the car,’ Ebinger began. ‘It’s the curse of the modern world, always trying to crack your nuts for you. You have a drink and the world calls you an alcoholic, you smile at a young woman and they assume you’re screwing her. You and me, we have this private conversation and some half-arsed journalist demands a transcript under Freedom of Information. So goddamned distasteful, everyone trying to listen in, don’t you think?’

  Chombo pulled a suitably disapproving face. He knew this was hokum; the Americans bugged everyone, spent many fortunes on it, and yet with all that listening they still talked shit.

  ‘What I have to say to you, Mr Chombo, is to your considerable advantage, but it’s not something I want to read about in tomorrow’s newspapers. Nor you, I suspect.’

  Chombo stirred. He was sure he’d got it right, it was the mining concessions. Was Ebinger going to offer him a bribe?

  ‘Mr Chombo, I’ve got some bad news I need to share,’ the American said. ‘You’re stuck in the middle of your presidential race and your rivals are beginning to play dirt-ball. They’re trying to destroy your reputation.’

  ‘Who? Who is it?’ Chombo blurted in surprise. ‘Tell me who is spreading lies?’

  ‘Can’t tell for sure and perhaps it doesn’t matter much. What matters is your reputation being on the line.’

  The car bounced gently on its heavy suspension as they came off the ramp and onto the freeway.

  ‘It’s all about the Mandela diaries,’ Ebinger continued. ‘You may have heard of them. Seems like one of your opponents is suggesting there are some references to you in them that are – how can I put this? – less than flattering.’ He spoke the words slowly, giving them strength. ‘You’re not alone. There are a couple of former American presidents who’d happily use the diaries for target practice, a Roman Catholic cardinal who’ll probably have to spend the rest of his life in confession and a French minister who might even go to jail if they’re published, but your problem, Mr Chombo, runs a little deeper than that.’

  Deeper than jail? The leather seat seemed to have grown sticky, tugging at his clothes.

  ‘You see, someone has kidnapped the son of the newspaper owner who is planning to publish the diaries. Pretty sick stuff. And they’re trying to make out that you’re behind it all. The boy was snatched in Switzerland and taken to Italy. They’re threatening to kill him unless all the references to you are dropped.’

  The African did not stir. Inside the bombproof bubble, the atmosphere seemed stifling.

  ‘What we suspect is this. The kidnap plot is going to be exposed, made very public, in an attempt to implicate you. They might even kill the boy. Even a halfwit couldn’t fail to see how catastrophic the impact would be on your election campaign. Let me tell you, Mr Chombo, those guys are first-class bastards. You got yourself some mighty powerful enemies out there. You need to take a good deal of care.’

  Chombo’s lips moved, but no words emerged. He didn’t believe any of this; where was the American going with it all? Suddenly it felt very hot, even with the air conditioning. He was being roasted.

  ‘The United States cannot interfere officially, of course, but will you let me offer you a little advice?’

  The African’s voice emerged wooden and robotic. ‘I am always happy to listen to my American friends.’

  ‘You’re a most powerful and influential man in these parts, Mr Chombo. Whatever rogue elements are responsible for this – well, I’m sure you have your ways of finding out who they are and dealing with them. But deal with them now. Before this all blows up in our faces. You get that boy released and I’m sure his father will want to show you all kinds of gratitude.’

  ‘How, precisely?’

  ‘By ensuring that the, er . . . unhelpful bits about you in the diaries get withheld.’

  ‘Withheld? That is a strange term. What does it mean?’

  ‘They get lost somewhere along the trail. Never make it to publication.’

  ‘But how can that be guaranteed? What if those things that are lost become found again?’

  ‘Well, as my daddy used to say to me, you can’t walk through the stables without expecting to get a little shit on your shoes. But if you want my entirely private counsel, it’s this. Have faith, Mr Chombo. Have faith in the gratitude of a father. Have faith in the fact that the diaries won’t appear until well after the election, when you’ll have got your feet firmly under that big old desk in the palace, and then – well, who’ll give a damn? If any of it comes out later, you’ll be able to denounce it as a forgery, lies put around by your opponents who’ve climbed into bed with the old white colonial press. Hell, handled right, it might even help you.’

  ‘These allegations, they are a preposterous lie.’

  ‘And you would have my help in making that point, Mr Chombo. You have my personal assurance that we would make sure our files on you remain in strict quarantine.’

  ‘Files? On me?’

  ‘Come now, Mr Chombo, you were a political activist during your time in the United States. Sure we have files on you.’ Ebinger held his thumb and finger several inches apart to suggest their thickness. ‘But no one has any interest in raking over old coals. The young women you injured in the car smash are fully recovered. And the infant son you left behind in Massachusetts is a father himself now.’

  Chombo’s features creased with astonishment.

  ‘W
hat, you never knew you were a grandfather? Isn’t that something? Let me be the first to congratulate you. Your son and granddaughter are American citizens, of course, and to my mind, that just strengthens the bond between our two countries.’

  Despite the climate control Chombo was sweating as he was turned slowly on the spit.

  ‘But if we’re going to have a gnat’s chance of avoiding disaster for you, we have to move quickly. The boy has got to be released immediately and without harm.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Look, three days should do it. If he’s set free within three days from now, that’s an end to it.’

  ‘But even if I can get him released—’

  ‘I have no doubt that you can. You’re a most resourceful man.’

  ‘. . . the father might publish anyway.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  Suddenly Ebinger’s voice had lost its almost jovial tone and had replaced it with an unmistakable edge of impatience. He was fed up with pretending to this arsehole. The family would cooperate, would hold off publication, he’d had Harry’s assurance on that when he’d called on a secure line to the US embassy in Pretoria to thank him for sending over the diaries.

  ‘Glad I could help,’ Ebinger had said.

  ‘There’s more,’ Harry had replied.

  ‘More?’

  ‘Something I need from you while you’re out there in South Africa. Help me and I’ll . . .’

  ‘You’ll what, Harry?’

  ‘Do this for me and I won’t run off with your wife.’

  Ebinger had laughed. Putnam was in her early sixties and a grandmother three times over, not the type of woman Harry usually got involved with, although over the years Harry and his wife had managed to see off a good quantity of his finest bourbon sitting out on the deck of his Silver Springs home. ‘Make the same promise for my daughters and I’m your man,’ Ebinger had replied.

  ‘Charley, seriously, you might save a young boy’s life here. While you’re there in South Africa I want you to get to Chombo,’ Harry had said, explaining his request.