Old Enemies

by Michael Dobbs

  Yet if Harry was expecting mediocrity, he was pleasantly surprised. Terri, who had made their reservations, sent them to the Grand Hotel Duchi d’Aosta on the central Piazza dell’Unità. The exterior of the building suggested little more than a slice of solid Habsburgian conformity yet inside it was an eye-popper, filled with quirky North Italian delights and period pieces. ‘No hardship here, then,’ Sean muttered as he gazed around the foyer, ‘not that there’ll be any time to enjoy it.’ They had an appointment the following morning, at ten, with D’Amato.

  ‘Will you be eating in our restaurant tonight, sir?’ the concierge enquired. ‘We think it is the finest in the city. It’s called Harry’s Grill.’

  ‘Suddenly lost my appetite,’ Sean replied sullenly.

  ‘And I’m going for a walk,’ Harry added. ‘Get to know this place.’

  So they left their suitcases and went their separate ways, Sean heading off into the night while Harry began his walk. He spent no more than two hours, but that was all it needed to familiarize himself with the heart of Trieste – the Piazza dell’Unità dressed in its Christmas fare, the quietly lit seafront, the downcast docks, the Grand Canal which was no longer so grand. Only when he was almost back in the Piazza dell’Unità did he stumble upon the narrow streets of the Old City with its two thousand years of history. They were still adding to it in their own distinctly chaotic fashion; many of the buildings on its largely pedestrianized streets were empty, in the process of refurbishment, their windows barred, their doors blocked, but much of the work had already been abandoned, with weeds encroaching on the fresh render and threatening to swamp the temporary power lines. He walked through a maze of alleys and ate pasta at a restaurant that in the summer would spill out onto one of the paved squares. While he ate he examined his fellow diners, wondering if any of them might have answers to his questions.

  Trieste closed remarkably early. As Harry walked back to the hotel, the life of the Old City had already retreated behind curtains and shutters. Even the couple of beggars who tried to waylay him from their perch in a crumbling doorway did so in desultory fashion, as if they knew it was already time to pack up and go home. He stopped under what appeared to be an ancient Roman arch, all crumbling stone and graffiti, listening to the city at night. He heard a cat howling, the distant growl of a scooter, footsteps that faded down a nearby alley, but apart from that there was little distraction. He stood for some while, listening to the city breathing, trying to feel its pulse, and eventually an elderly man wrapped up in muffler and felt hat and bending over his cane came shuffling by. He knew Harry was there but didn’t raise his eyes or return Harry’s gaze.

  Already Harry was beginning to understand Trieste. This was a place of shutters and blind eyes, where people didn’t want to know. A wonderful place to hide.

  The silence of the city ended abruptly at seven in the morning with the heavy tolling of Catholic and Orthodox consciences. Church bells rang out on all sides summoning penitents to prayer and dragging Harry from his bed. He scarcely needed the encouragement; he hadn’t been able to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes Ruari walked into the room, kicking open his door, with his mother not far behind. Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, while the threads of his unravelling life whipped around him. He decided to freshen up with a swim, grabbed a towel and robe and headed down to the hotel’s underground pool, an extraordinary construction of mosaics and marble that incorporated authentic Roman footings for what might once have been a pagan temple. He was surprised to find Sean already there, swimming in a practised manner through his lengths, and clearly exceptionally fit for his age and nocturnal habits. Harry wasn’t in the mood either to share or to disturb; he turned abruptly and began walking away, but suspected Sean had already seen him.

  They didn’t join up until shortly before ten to walk to the Questura. A blustery wind scuttled in off the sea, playing tag with the Christmas muzak across the pavement of the Piazza dell’Unità. ‘Cliffeckinrichard,’ Sean scowled. ‘You come all this way, and you get Cliffeckinrichard.’

  ‘It’s to scare away the seagulls,’ Harry muttered. They marched on in silence.

  The Questura was close behind the City Hall, solidly built and unpretentious, the sort of building that wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. As they climbed the steps, Harry realized he hadn’t noticed a single police siren in the city, no raging car horns, not even a discarded cigarette packet or sweet wrapper. The streets were unlike any he’d found elsewhere in Italy. A dark-eyed, athletic young woman greeted them in the reception area and took them up to the second floor. No waiting. Nothing but courtesy. They were ushered straight in.

  ‘Ah, welcome – Signor Breslin?’ D’Amato extended a hand and raised an eyebrow in Sean’s direction to confirm the identification before turning to Harry. ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘Jones. A . . . a family friend,’ Harry replied, at a loss as to how else he might explain his presence.

  ‘Signor Breslin, if you and your very good friend would take a seat. And coffee, of course. Simona, please bring the gentlemen some coffee.’

  ‘No need,’ Sean began, waving a hand.

  But the inspector was insistent. ‘Trieste is famous for its coffee. You will find at least fifteen different varieties here,’ he explained in his excellent but less than colloquial English. ‘In the morning it is our custom to take it with a shot of grappa, but this is police headquarters, so you will forgive.’ He shrugged and smiled, then his face melted into seriousness. ‘I am so sorry that your visit to Trieste should be under such unfortunate circumstances. Please allow me to extend my sympathies to your family, Mr Breslin. Kidnap, it is a crime of beasts, not human beings.’ His eyes said he meant it. After a mournful moment he glanced down to the sheets of paper that had been arranged carefully on his desk, shuffling them around as though to refresh his memory, then looked up once more. ‘My officers have searched the farmhouse. There is good news, I think. They have found some ski clothes, a teenager’s. They are being tested but I am sure we will find they are your grandson’s. It means he is almost certainly alive. We have found nothing that says otherwise.’ He decided it wasn’t necessary to mention the bloodied bandages they’d also found and were testing in the expectation they would reveal Ruari’s blood group.

  Simona returned with the coffee. As she bent over to serve it, Harry couldn’t help but become aware of the tight body beneath the blouse and demure dress, and the ease with which she filled the space.

  ‘Multumesc,’ D’Amato muttered at her, accepting his small cup of espresso, his eyes lingering just a fraction too long on her bottom as she left. He swallowed a brief smile of guilt before turning back to his guests. ‘You will know, of course, that we found two bodies. South Africans, we believe. We are checking all international databases, but sadly that takes time. Everything takes time.’

  ‘Sometimes too much time,’ Sean said.

  ‘I understand your impatience, signor, but until yesterday no one knew for sure that your grandson was being held here. He could have been anywhere in Italy. It was only through excellent police work that we made the breakthrough.’

  ‘But, sadly, your excellent police work didn’t manage to catch them.’ Sean’s emphasis stopped only a little short of sarcasm.

  ‘We assume that the gang was in some way alerted. It is possible they saw police cars on the Carso and panicked. In such a place it is so very difficult for the police to – how do you say, keep our heads low? Yet without those cars we could not have found them.’ D’Amato spread his arms in frustration, then sprang up to stand beside a large wall map of his fiefdom and began stabbing at it with his finger. ‘There is more. We thought the gang had gone to the border with Slovenia.’ He traced a prospective path. ‘It is only a few minutes away from the farmhouse and it is not guarded even at the main crossing points, not in the new Europe, eh? But we have a report that a boat was taken from the Trieste marina on the same evening.’ The finger began stabbing once
again. ‘At this time of year it could not have been for amusement. So I think it is possible they have taken the boy that way, by sea, down the coast to Slovenia, here, or more likely Croatia. The coastline there is very beautiful, but as you can see, very rugged. They could hide there for months. That is not such good news. I am sorry.’

  ‘What makes you so sure they are not still in Trieste, Inspector?’ Harry asked.

  D’Amato nodded, acknowledging the merit of the question, and returned to his chair. ‘That is possible, of course, but not, I think, likely. We keep looking, you understand, just in case, but I must try to tell you about Trieste, Signor Jones. It is not a big city, very respectable, perhaps a little dull and stubborn. And very law-abiding. The Triestines even hesitate to cross an empty street against a red light. They like their order of things. There is a story, Signor Jones, that when God was making the world, he flew around it with a bag in each hand. One bag contained all the good things in life, the other was filled with disappointment. As he was flying over this beautiful bay the bag with all the good things burst and fell upon the land, and He said, this is unfair, this cannot be the only place on earth with no disappointment. So to make up for all that good fortune, He filled the place with Triestines.’ D’Amato smiled, but without humour. ‘I can say this, because I am from Campania. So the people here, they are a little suspicious, a little wary. They do not like others bringing their problems and leaving them on their doorsteps. They do not welcome kidnappers. It is easier to do such things in almost any other town in Italy, and the Balkans . . .’ His shoulders rose once more, as though shrugging off an unbearable responsibility. ‘We shall keep looking. If they are here we will catch them. But I do not think they are. It is a bad place for foreigners to hide.’ He pushed his cup of coffee away, he was finished. ‘I will let you know the moment I hear any news.’ He rose wearily to his feet. ‘How long do you intend to stay in Trieste, gentlemen?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We came to see for ourselves,’ Sean replied.

  ‘Of course. You must stay as long as you feel it is necessary, and so long as you are here, please feel free to call on me for anything you desire. But I fear there will be nothing more for you in Trieste. If you wish my advice, I suggest you return home, to be with the rest of your family. That is best at a time such as this.’ He held out his hand, leading them to the door, but Harry lagged behind, hesitated.

  ‘You said foreigners.’

  D’Amato turned. ‘Did I?’

  ‘You said this was a bad place for foreigners to hide. You think the gang is not Italian?’

  ‘We are examining what was left behind in the farmhouse. Much of it could have come from anywhere, but we found a few books, cheap novels. In Romanian. Also a personal music player with some Romanian songs. We think it is possible the gang might be from there.’

  ‘But you have Romanians in Trieste.’

  ‘Signor Jones, we have all sorts of people here. This is a port, an international crossroads. But very few Romanians, perhaps no more than two thousand.’

  ‘Your secretary, the young lady. She is Romanian.’

  The inspector’s brow creased. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You said thank you. In Romanian. Multumesc.’

  The inspector’s eyes clouded. ‘What are you trying to imply, Signor Jones?’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m just trying to find out what I can.’

  ‘There is nothing to find out about the young lady, I assure you,’ D’Amato replied. An edge had crept into his voice. ‘It is not possible that she has any connection with this matter.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  But D’Amato cut through him. ‘No connection whatsoever. I can give you my personal guarantee on that.’ Why, she’d been sleeping in his bed when the kidnappers were escaping. He was her alibi, about as good an alibi as you could get, although he had no intention of sharing it with these men. They had suddenly become a bore. ‘If you decide to stay in Trieste, please let me know, gentlemen. Otherwise I wish you a safe journey home, and good luck.’

  It might have been his imagination, but Harry thought the door was closed behind them on rather stiffer hinges than those on which it had been opened.

  They found themselves a table outside the Caffè degli Specchi, across the piazza from their hotel. It was one of the most fashionable spots in town, known as the Café of the Mirrors, where Triestines and visitors had been drinking coffee and wine ever since the days of the emperors, and not a lot had changed since. They sat in the sun, wrapped in their coats against the sea breeze, sipping more coffee as they tried to marshal their thoughts, while the good burghers and ubiquitous bankers, the humble clerks and inquisitive accountants of the city walked past.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Harry asked eventually.

  ‘I’m thinking it was James Joyce and Richard Burton themselves who once sat right here, drinking their own coffee on a table at this exact spot.’

  ‘They came here?’

  ‘For sure. Lived here, for a while.’

  ‘What, Richard Burton the film star?’

  ‘For the love of God, not that one. The explorer, the man of many letters. He died here. The man who translated the Arabian Nights and who was supposed to have written out a pornographic translation of The Perfumed Garden, before his wife burned all his notes.’

  ‘That’s probably why I never read it. Never finished Ulysses, either.’

  ‘Then, Mr Jones, that’s something else we’ll not be able to talk about.’

  They went back to sipping black mud.

  It was several minutes before Sean began again. ‘I think that Inspector D’Amato’s banging his secretary.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘An old man’s instinct for such things. When you’re a spectator of the game, you see so much more than while you’re out there playing on the field.’

  His eyes burned into Harry, who grew uncomfortable.

  ‘So let’s get this over with, Mr Jones. I’m not sure what’s going on between you and Terri, and I’m not a man to moralize. On my old grandmother’s grave, if I were D’Amato I’d be banging her myself, but I told you before. Blood. Family. In the end, they’re the things that count.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘’Tis an awful long way to the gates of Heaven, Mr Jones, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be making the trip. Too many diversions along the way, things I didn’t get right. Just like a politician. A paratrooper, even.’

  ‘Let alone a Provo,’ Harry said, finishing off the thought.

  ‘That’s right. But you’d better be clear in your mind about one thing. I’m here in this place to protect my family, Mr Jones, not to sit back and watch you pull it apart.’

  Harry raised his cup. ‘Then, to family.’

  ‘And to Hell with anyone who gets in my way.’

  They left it there, for the moment.

  The couple next to them vacated their table; a seagull swooped down on the breeze, eyeing the biscotti left on a plate. Harry’s ear was burning again. Perhaps it was the effect of the freshening wind, but he had an idea it might be in warning. He pushed aside his cup. ‘There’s one thing I don’t like about this, Sean.’

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘We know how bloody dangerous the kidnappers are, even when everything was going well for them. Now they’ve had their plans kicked to pieces. They’re on the run, and rushing, too. Why the hell have they brought the deadline forward to Christmas?’

  ‘I wish to God I knew.’

  ‘It’s like they’re losing control. This isn’t a recipe for happiness on anyone’s part.’

  Sean sucked his cheeks. ‘Been thinking along those lines myself. And something else that’s been nipping at my mind. In the rush to get out of the farmhouse, to escape, did they let Ruari see their faces? If he has, they’re not going to let him get away, not with him being able to identify every single one of the murdering bastards, no matter how much we pay them. You know h
ow the game is played.’

  ‘We can’t be sure.’

  ‘In their place, would you be willing to take that risk?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Harry replied softly.

  The seagull had set down on the nearby table and was scavenging. The waiter advanced, flapping his towel, the bird screeched and took off in fright, knocking the glasses to the pavement where they shattered into a hundred pieces of ice. Muttering to himself, the waiter stalked off in search of a broom. If only their mess could be cleared up so easily, Harry mused.

  ‘So,’ the Irishman said, ‘what are you thinking the next step should be?’

  ‘You asking me?’

  ‘Looks like it. Just this once.’

  Harry didn’t answer immediately, staring instead into the dregs of his cup like a fortune-teller in search of an answer. ‘D’Amato and the police, you trust them?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘Trust?’ Sean raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t trust them with my shirt on a winter’s night.’

  Harry’s fingers went to his ear. It was still burning, warning him of pain to come. He sighed. ‘In which case, if Ruari is to stand any chance, he’ll have to be got out, and quickly. Before the Christmas deadline. And we’ll have to do it, you and me; we don’t have time to wait for the good inspector to find his way out from inside his secretary’s knickers.’

  ‘Now there’s something amazing. Pretty soon, Mr Jones, you and I will be agreeing.’

  ‘But we haven’t any idea where Ruari is. Do you buy D’Amato’s idea that he’s not in Trieste, that this is the last place they’ll hide?’

  ‘The man’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot,’ Sean spat. ‘There must be some reason why they came to Trieste in the first place. They felt safe here, or they know it well, have friends. That’s maybe why they got warning of the raid. And wasn’t that exactly what we did back during the Troubles when we wanted to confuse the crap out of you lot? Hid right beneath your long British noses, so we did.’ Sean threw Harry a defiant rebel look.