Old Enemies

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘And the speed boat?’

  ‘A feint, a false trail.’

  ‘So you think they’re here.’

  ‘Worth a look.’

  ‘May be a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Well, what choice do we have? We’ve nowhere else to be scratching around, now, have we?’

  We. You and me. It wasn’t different camps any longer. They had slipped into a different place.

  ‘You know, Sean, you seem to understand the kidnappers’ minds pretty well.’

  Sean shook his head, knowing where Harry was leading him. ‘I was never there myself.’ Then his face twisted, almost into a grin, an expression Harry had never seen on him. ‘Except for that feckin’ horse.’

  ‘What horse?’

  ‘Shergar. Remember that useless lump of horseflesh?’

  Sean’s description was entirely ironic. Like most Irishmen he was a lover of the turf and Shergar had been one of its finest princes, a thoroughbred stallion who had won almost every major race he’d started, often by a record margin, and been worth a king’s ransom at stud. Which was why the Provisional IRA had kidnapped him, demanding five million pounds for his return. The horse had never been seen again.

  ‘What happened?’ Harry asked, intrigued.

  ‘A total and unmitigated feck-up, from the moment the nag woke up to discover Micky Ahern trying to stick a needle up his arse. Went wild, kicked himself to buggery, and poor Mickey, too. Buried both of them together.’

  Sean allowed himself a brief smile, but it faded quickly. It didn’t seem a particularly good omen.

  ‘So where do we start, Sean?’

  ‘Only one place we can. The farmhouse. We start there. Go take a look for ourselves.’

  Simona was perched on the edge of D’Amato’s desk, her skirt riding her thigh. The inspector was smiling, she’d just agreed to spend the coming night with him and was even going to book the hotel for him. She made things so easy. They were sharing a whispered joke when his phone rang. As she leaned across him to answer it, her blouse fell forward, leaving him wondering how he would ever find the willpower to hold out until the evening.

  She listened for a moment, then held her hand over the receiver. ‘It’s the English,’ she said, in a manner that would have had Sean choking.

  He hesitated only for a moment before shaking his head. ‘Get rid of them,’ he mouthed.

  ‘The inspector is not available,’ she said dutifully, then listened a little more before covering the mouthpiece again. ‘They want to visit the farmhouse.’

  The inspector sighed in frustration, dragging his eyes out of their sockets in order to concentrate. ‘Tell them it is a crime scene, not just kidnap but murder, that forensics are still inside, it is not possible.’

  Once again she repeated his message, before saying goodbye and placing the receiver back in its cradle. ‘They say they are going anyway.’

  D’Amato flicked his fingers in agitation. ‘What do you think, my little bird? You understand men so well.’

  ‘I think they are going to be trouble,’ she whispered.

  Sean, who had the keys, decided he would drive. They took the main road up to the Carso, their rented Fiat 1.4 never getting above third as they wound their way up the steep slope, passing the funicular as it hauled itself on a more direct route up to the plateau. Not until they approached the towering obelisk at Opicina were they able to slip into a higher gear. The monument had been erected by some long-dead Austro-Hungarian ruler to mark the spot where the Carso at last gave way to civilization, a milestone of happiness after the long haul across the wilderness of limestone. The views from the edge of the plateau were extraordinary. On their right hand were the snow-topped mountains of the pre-Alps, on their left lay the rugged forests of Slovenia, while in front of them the ground tumbled down towards the streets and the seafront of Trieste more than a thousand feet below, and beyond that still the gentle waiting waters of the bay that stretched out to the horizon where Venice lurked hidden in the mists. In most other countries the spot would be overwhelmed with souvenir stalls and trinket-sellers, but here there was nothing, just the view, understated and undersold like the rest of Trieste. Opicina itself was little more than a village and a stop at the end of the funicular, yet it was the most substantial spot on the Carso. It took them only minutes to pass through and get onto the winding roads that snaked through the scrub woodland and hard-won fields of the plateau with its ancient, crumbing stone walls and old Karsic houses. These houses had a strong, primitive style, and were squat, as though ducking from the wind, heavily shuttered with long balconies covered in vines and goodluck wreaths tied to the gates. At this time of year the wreaths had withered, and were the colour of rust.

  They found the farmhouse without difficulty. Where its track turned off the main road a police car was parked. The occupants were sitting, heads tilted back, caps nudged down over their noses, unaware of Sean and Harry’s arrival until the Fiat had passed them and was bumping and swaying down the tree-shrouded track. They drove for several minutes before they came across an officer who was altogether more alert. He stepped out into their path, held up his hand, brought them to a halt. Over his shoulder, beyond the trees, they could see the farmhouse, scruffy, anonymous, forlorn, in desperate need of a little pointing and paint.

  Neither Harry nor Sean had much Italian, and the officer no English. As they attempted to explain what they wanted, he kept shaking his head and uttering ‘Non si puo’ – it can’t be done. It seemed like his sermon. Behind him they could see no sign of the forensic teams that the inspector’s office had told them were crawling over the place, nothing beyond another solitary officer who was squatting hatless on the step, smoking and gazing languidly in their direction.

  ‘Looks like they’re dug in for a long siege,’ Breslin muttered.

  ‘Something tells me they knew we were coming,’ Harry added.

  ‘D’Amato,’ they both concluded as one.

  There was no point in further argument. They stood at the side of the track in silence for a few moments. Two days ago Ruari had been here. Yet as Sean and Harry shared a private moment, there was one thought Harry knew the other man couldn’t be part of. This might be as close as he ever got to his son.

  When they climbed back into the car they had trouble turning, the track was so narrow, hemmed in by tree stumps, and the policeman showed no inclination to help. As at last they set off again, the Fiat clattered into a deep pothole, struggling through it with a jarring clunk of complaint.

  ‘God help me,’ Sean muttered, ‘but that nice young lady at the car-rental place isn’t going to be happy with us for this.’

  The car stumbled on. By the time they made it back to the main road, the two dozing officers were awake, waiting for them, watching with suspicion until they disappeared from sight.

  ‘Something tells me we’re about as welcome in these parts as a politician with the pox,’ Sean observed.

  ‘I’ll have to take your word on that,’ Harry replied.

  It had been a long day since breakfast. They stopped in a nearby village, at a small osteria in the lee of an ancient church tower that had been built on the summit of a hill and dominated the surrounding area. As they pushed open the rough-hewn door they were greeted by the aroma of wood smoke and strong cheese; an elderly woman in a red-check apron bustled towards them. This was authentic Carso, Slovene not Italian, the simplest of establishments with green felt hats on the pegs, frills running along the edge of the lace curtains and painted plates hanging on the walls, a little chunk of Austria that had been dropped two hundred years and several hundred miles from its original home. They had no language in common beyond the woman’s few words of primitive English, but sign language soon brought forth a spread of prosciutto and neck ham along with farmhouse cheese, spiced sausage and a bowl of freshly grated horseradish. A basket of bread and two tumblers of blood-red Terrano were set down in the middle; the wine was a little rough, thick, and excelle
nt for slicing through the fat of the ham. They ordered a second glass as they picked over the plates. They lost themselves in their thoughts, pondering what lay ahead, and it was some time before either of them spoke.

  ‘Even if they’re in Trieste, we’ve no idea where to look,’ Sean eventually muttered disconsolately.

  ‘Then perhaps we’re going to have to persuade them to show us.’

  ‘And how in the name of God do you hope to do that?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Harry ventured. ‘You’ll probably think it half-arsed.’

  ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, Mr Jones. Such an idea from you would come as no great surprise.’

  Sean remained silent after Harry had finished. He didn’t object to what Harry had suggested, but neither did he approve. He simply sat quietly, reflecting, as Harry paid their bill and the woman nodded in gratitude. Sean held his silence, even as they made their way back to the car.

  ‘Something’s bugging you, Sean. You don’t like the plan?’ Harry asked eventually as, still without a word, Sean started the engine and selected first gear. Sean looked ahead along the steep road that led out of the village.

  ‘No, it’s not the plan.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s you.’ The Irishman turned in his seat, his brow creased by doubt. He was staring at Harry curiously, his bright eyes darting, questioning. ‘Your plan is certainly half-arsed, but I’ll not complain at that since I’ve nothing better to offer in its place. Yet it requires you to put your neck very firmly on the line, to take a terrible risk. Oh, that’s not for the first time, I know, Queen and feckin’ country and all that, but I’m sitting here asking myself, why would you be doing that, for my grandson?’ The troubled cast in his eye suggested he’d already tried various possibilities and cared for none of them. He left the question hanging in the air as he slipped the handbrake and they set off.

  Harry was drawing breath to reply, something vacuous about kids and friends in need, when he realized Sean wasn’t paying attention any more. Instead he was staring with concentrated ferocity at the road ahead, and pumping savagely at the brake pedal. Yet the car was still accelerating.

  Although the Carso is a plateau, it isn’t flat. It has hills for its churches, and inclines, some of which are savage and steep. It was on one of these inclines that the car was now set. The handbrake was useless, but they might have stopped their progress without too much harm by deliberately colliding with the corner of the last house in the village, which they were now rapidly approaching, yet, just as Sean turned the wheel to clip it, a donkey appeared without warning from the alley in front of them, dragging a cart directly into their path. A look of horror from the farmer, a bray of alarm from the beast, and Sean swerved. By then it was too late, they were travelling too quickly.

  The first thing Sean struck was a low wall beside a field a little further down the road. Goats scattered in panic. The front bumper dislodged and for a moment became jammed beneath the wheels, slowing them a little, but soon it was flailing like a windmill behind them. Sean clipped the other wing twice taking the next corner, but beyond that was a straight stretch of road that ran between a rock face and a sheer drop on Harry’s side. He could see clay-tile rooftops forty feet below; he tightened his seat belt. They were gaining speed and there was never any possibility they would be able to take the next bend, a sharp left-hander, but at least it took them away from the drop. For a few yards the Fiat scraped along a wall of natural rock, leaving bits of bodywork and a shower of sparks in its wake. The window beside Harry’s face shattered, tearing at his cheek and showering his lap in fragments of glass. And even as Sean struggled in vain to correct their course, the front wheel hit an outcropping boulder and the suspension struts snapped, hurling the car in the air. When once more it landed on the roadway, with a savage jolt that shattered more glass, the Fiat had only three wheels. They careered on, with no hope of control, metal screaming, like a fairground ride, knowing they would hit whatever lay ahead of them at the next corner. Their eyes met in fear.

  ‘See you in Hell, Mr Jones!’ Sean cried as, with a final sickening twist and shriek of tortured metal, the car left the roadway and hurtled towards the waiting rocks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The car had finished its journey wedged on its side in a deep rocky ditch. The driver’s airbag had operated, saving Sean from the worst of the impact, but Harry had been left to the less than tender mercies of his seat belt. When eventually he forced open his eyes, he felt as if he’d spent a week in a cement mixer. He thought he might have been knocked out, but had no idea for how long, or even which way was up or down. The roof was six inches lower than the manufacturer’s specification, the windscreen was a crazy pavement of cracks, and there was a nasty smell of burning electricals and petrol. Beside him, Sean was beginning to come round.

  ‘You OK?’ Harry asked him.

  Sean tested his limbs, then nodded. ‘Nothing broken, but I can’t move. And if it’s all the same with you, instead of hanging around here I’d rather be getting ourselves out before whatever’s causing that smell of smoke gets together with the leaking petrol and decides to throw a feckin’ party.’ He started fumbling with his belt.

  Harry struggled with the release on his own seat belt, groaning as a wave of pain ran up his right side, then leaned across Sean to push at the driver’s door, which in their new arrangement was now facing the sky, but it had been jammed by the impact and wouldn’t budge. ‘You’re right, Sean. That girl at the car rental? She’s going to be really pissed off with you.’

  Sean tried to smile, and winced. ‘The brakes went.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you were simply in a hurry.’

  ‘I think it’s not just the car-rental lass who doesn’t like us.’

  ‘That’s good news, Sean.’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘It means they’re still in Trieste.’

  Harry was trying to kick out the windscreen and wondering where the blood on his shirt had come from when he heard sounds of a commotion from above their heads. Shouts. Falling stones bouncing off the bent panelling as people scrambled down. Legs. In uniform. Hands, wrenching at the driver’s door. A face. The police.

  ‘Praise Mary,’ Sean muttered as the officers began to twist him out of his seat and haul him up. More help. And a final pair of hands to drag him over the edge of the rock cleft to safety. He was surprised to see it was D’Amato.

  ‘Inspector, I’m grateful to you,’ Sean said as he stumbled into the policeman’s arms.

  But a frown came over D’Amato’s face. He wrinkled his nose. What was that he could smell on the Irishman’s breath? ‘Signor Breslin, have you been drinking?’

  Ah, the Terrano. ‘Only a couple of small glasses.’

  ‘Then I regret. You are under arrest.’

  They handcuffed Sean, wouldn’t listen to his protests, just put him in the back of a police car and drove him away.

  ‘Signor Jones, you will come with me, please,’ D’Amato suggested pointedly as they finished dragging Harry to safety. ‘I will take you to the hospital. You need attention for the cuts on your face. And a chance to talk, perhaps.’

  It was just the two of them in the car as the inspector drove back down. There was already a hint of dusk, a vague redness washing across the sky from the direction of Venice, and it had begun to rain, a fine mist that turned to fog, clinging to the dark trunks of the trees and adding to the sense of isolation, of being cut off.

  ‘There is no way he was over the limit,’ Harry said, his tone belligerent.

  ‘We have to be careful in such matters, you understand. It can all be sorted out at headquarters.’ He sounded reassuring, trying to take the spark from the air between them.

  ‘The car was sabotaged. When you drag it out, I think you’ll find the brake hoses have been cut.’

  ‘Perhaps. We shall look.’

  ‘It’s good of you to take such a personal interest, Inspector. Even
better if you did something to help.’

  D’Amato sighed. ‘Signor Jones, I regret very much your problems and I will do everything I can to help, on that you have my word. But your presence is not helping here. You will only get in the way of the police investigation.’

  ‘The presence of kidnappers isn’t wanted, either, but you’ve got them.’

  ‘Please, I beg you. Do not cause any further trouble.’

  ‘Someone has just tried to kill us. Add that to a kidnap and two murders. How much more chaos do you want on your quiet streets, Inspector?’ Harry snapped.

  ‘I understand your anger and upset. Your experience must have been terrible.’ D’Amato was working hard to calm the storm, and already they were pulling up at the hospital on Piazza Osedale. The inspector drew the car to a halt, turned to face Harry, creases of concern playing around the corners of his eyes. ‘Please learn the lesson of your terrible accident. For your own safety, I suggest that you make your arrangements to leave.’

  ‘Not without my friend.’

  ‘Signor Jones, if you are right about his drinking, I think you will find he is released, very quickly. In the morning, at the latest. You can both be in your own beds back home by tomorrow evening.’

  ‘And Ruari?’

  ‘At the moment he is in God’s hands, not mine.’

  ‘No, Inspector, he is in someone else’s hands, murdering shit-heads who are here in this city right under your nose. And if you can’t find them, I promise you, I will.’

  D’Amato’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. ‘Signor Jones, please. Leave.’

  Harry was opening the door and climbing out when he paused. ‘No, thank you, Inspector. I think I’ll hang on in Trieste.’