Old Enemies

by Michael Dobbs

  Yet although he had survived so far, Ruari now knew these men were going to kill him. He’d seen too much of them, what they were capable of, and seeing it meant he would not be allowed to survive. But here, in the heart of the city, he found reason for hope. There were other people in this new world of his, even if he couldn’t see them and could only hear them through a closed window, people who were more than just sullen, murderous beasts. Perhaps some of these people out there were even looking for him. Perhaps, after all, he had a chance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In his dreams, Harry was being strafed by machine-gun fire, and Sean was pulling the trigger. He had at last managed to fall off to sleep, weighed down by exhaustion, but it had brought him no peace. His dream was particularly vivid; he was trying to crawl away from the danger, yet he’d got himself tangled on the wire, there was mud in his eyes, his new ear had been torn, and the machine gun was rattling in his ears when it all morphed into a pounding on his door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called out, waking and scrabbling for his wits.

  ‘It’s me, Karim,’ a voice called out. Harry recognized it as the junior concierge who had been so helpful on the previous day and who had received a generous tip for his pains.

  ‘Come in, damn you.’

  A passkey scrabbled at the door and Karim entered. He was a well-presented young man with the dark skin of North Africa and serious eyes that were now downcast. ‘Good morning, Mr Jones. A thousand apologies for disturbing you. We have tried to telephone but there was no answer.’

  Harry glanced at the bedside phone. Its red message button was glowing. He was alarmed to see it was already ten. He must have died on that bloody wire.

  Karim shuffled uneasily as though his highly polished shoes were several sizes too tight. ‘I have been instructed, Mr Jones, to ask about your plans. To see if we can help you with any travel arrangements, perhaps.’

  Plans? Harry had nothing that would pass muster as a plan, except hanging around waiting. ‘Another couple of days, probably,’ he muttered, yawning, feeling every limb creaking in complaint. The car crash had roughed him up more badly than he’d realized.

  Karim’s shoes seemed to have shrunk another size. He was hopping in discomfort. ‘I am filled with apology, Mr Jones, but your room is no longer available.’

  ‘Pity. Very nice. But any room will do.’

  ‘I am desolate, Mr Jones,’ the young man responded in his quaint and formal English, his head bowing as he tried to remember his lines, ‘but the hotel is full. All rooms are already reserved. The management very much regrets . . .’

  Harry was just about to make the blindingly obvious point that the piazza was scarcely swamped by crowds, that most people preferred Christmas in the Caribbean, when his mind slipped into gear. This had nothing to do with the management and its imaginary bookings. This was D’Amato putting on a little heat.

  ‘Please,’ Karim stuttered, his face a picture of misery. ‘The management has instructed me to apologize most humbly for any inconvenience.’

  ‘I think I understand, Karim.’ Harry collapsed back onto his pillow, trying to clear his thoughts. ‘Tell me, if I booked into another hotel, how soon would it be before I found the room no longer available?’

  Karim stared, at first uncertain, then succumbed. ‘Very quickly, I fear. The reservations are sent every day to the Questura . . .’

  ‘Straight to the police.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am sorry.’

  Harry got out of his bed. He was naked but his years in military service had left him without much modesty. Karim closed his eyes as his guest climbed into his shorts, and when he reopened them he found Harry inspecting the contents of his wallet in a manner that was intended to capture Karim’s attention. ‘Then tell me, Karim, how much does it cost to rent a car in these parts? A large car, perhaps one that wouldn’t be too uncomfortable to sleep in?’

  Harry withdrew one of his collection of £200 notes. Karim’s face became animated as he watched. ‘Around five hundred euro a week. Maybe a little more.’

  Harry drew out a second note, and placed the money openly on the bedside table. Then he drew out the same number of notes, after a little thought added another, and began folding them, very tightly.

  ‘I wonder, Karim, whether you would do me a favour? Hire a car later this afternoon, leave it in some very quiet spot, somewhere people will take no notice. Put a couple of sleeping bags in the boot, hide the keys in the exhaust where I can find them. You return it to the rental company at the end of the week. The car won’t be driven, there will be no reason for anyone to ask questions.’ Harry finished folding the notes and looked up. ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  As he had watched Harry’s performance Karim’s eyes had grown larger, like a card player calculating the odds. They seemed very good. ‘If – if I could help, where would you want it leaving, Mr Jones?’

  Harry grabbed his local street map and threw it at Karim. ‘Somewhere out of the way. You show me.’

  In less than two minutes they were done, a quiet parking area behind San Giusto marked with a red-ink cross.

  ‘Shall I send a porter to collect your bag, Mr Jones?’

  ‘I travel light, I can manage. But thank you all the same,’ Harry said, reaching to shake Karim’s hand and to pass over his very handsome thousand-euro tip.

  There was no point in Hiley hanging around any longer in Rome. Ruari’s release hadn’t happened and he was of more use back home, where the Breslins were delighted to see him; they knew they weren’t up to negotiating with the kidnappers themselves. Hiley was soon in action once again.

  ‘Where is my money?’ Cosmin demanded.

  ‘First, can I have a name?’ Hiley began, as he had done with Jan.

  ‘Santa Claus. My fucking money?’

  Hiley sensed there was no point in arguing. Even across the Internet this man managed to give off the aura of serious evil. ‘Look, the Breslins are trying to gather it together, trying their hardest, but it’s the week before Christmas. You know what that’s like. Please, we need a little more time.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A few more days.’

  ‘What, you want a few more fingers, too? Christmas Day, or Little Shit is dead.’

  ‘But we can’t raise five million by Christmas, it’s simply not possible. And perhaps not at all. It’s an outrageous sum. We could perhaps do a million, we’ve got almost that together, you could have that now . . .’ It was the strategy they had worked out. Try to negotiate, find a chink of light. But the other man was all darkness. Cosmin raised his voice in impatience.

  ‘Stop wasting time! I want five million euros, not a sermon. Or you want I make it pounds?’

  ‘But we must have proof of life. We need to know that Ruari is well, otherwise there is nothing we can do.’

  ‘Little Shit? He is still alive. And kicking. Very much last night. You know our cook, he is – what you call these things? A queer, a goat-fucker. He likes Little Shit very much. They had good time last night. Maybe tonight again, too, if you keep wasting my time.’

  ‘Proof of life!’ Hiley insisted, growing desperate.

  But the connection was cut.

  The police were waiting outside the hotel for Harry. Karim nodded in their direction, making sure Harry had seen. There were two of them, lounging on the bonnet of their blue-and-white Fiat parked ostentatiously in the road.

  ‘I think they wish to offer you a lift,’ Karim whispered.

  ‘How very kind of the inspector,’ Harry replied drily.

  Karim began printing out Harry’s bill, along with one for Sean. Their two shoulder bags stood to one side in the small, meticulously appointed lobby, which was almost empty, with no sign of the tidal wave of guests that was supposedly about to inundate the hotel. An elegant man in his sixties, immaculately dressed in the North Italian manner, was hovering, waiting, his head bowed and hands clasped as though in mourning. He introduced himself as the manager.


  ‘My profound apologies once again, Mr Jones,’ he began, spreading his hands wide. ‘This should not have happened.’

  ‘I agree.’

  The man’s frown deepened as Karim pushed Harry’s bill across the counter. Harry was inspecting it when the manager stretched across and slid it away from him. ‘I think I see a mistake in your bill, Mr Jones. We do not permit such things at our hotel. If you will allow me?’ He folded the bill and pushed it into his pocket. He attempted a smile. ‘I hope there may be another time.’

  Nodding in gratitude, Harry shouldered both bags.

  ‘A pleasant journey, Mr Jones,’ the manager called after him.

  ‘Not without my friend,’ Harry replied as he set off.

  He walked out onto the piazza, aware that the policemen’s eyes hadn’t left him for a second, and headed for the Questura, less than five minutes’ walk away. It had two entrances, the main one they had used on the previous day, and a less obvious side access. Harry suspected, correctly, that Sean would be relegated to the side door reserved for the local lowlife. Indeed, as he arrived, he found Sean beside the reception desk, looking bedraggled, with sleepless eyes and unkempt hair, shaking hands and saying goodbye to an elderly, stooped stranger. ‘My lawyer,’ he explained. ‘You see, Mr Jones, I’ve been in Trieste less than two days and already I’m making friends.’

  ‘They throwing you out, are they?’

  ‘I have to admit there are some here who don’t seem to have taken to me. That dozy bollox of an inspector, for one,’ Sean said, taking his bag. ‘The breath test was negative, of course. It just took them a whole feckin’ night with me on a concrete bed for them to get the results back and for my lawyer to arrange the paperwork.’

  ‘More friends,’ Harry suggested, as they emerged from the Questura to find the policemen with their car parked directly outside. One of them was holding open the back door, indicating they should get in. ‘Our taxi. I suspect they want to take us to the airport. Make sure we leave.’

  ‘Not bloody likely!’

  But Harry took Sean’s arm, whispered in his ear, led him towards the car. ‘We are flying from Venice. So take us to the railway station, please,’ he instructed the policeman. He got a sullen look in return as the door was banged shut behind them.

  No further word was spoken as the policemen drove them north along the seafront, past the old docks to the Stazione Centrale, another sleepy chunk of ancient Austrian architecture that stood behind a small park. After Sean and Harry had climbed out they were followed by the two policemen, who made it very obvious what they were about. Inside the high-ceilinged ticket hall Harry bought two tickets from the machines; they didn’t have long to wait, indeed they had to hurry, the train for Venice was due to leave in a few minutes. They joined the gentle throng of other passengers as they waited to board. As Sean stepped onto the train Harry knelt on the platform, pretending to tie his shoelace, and glanced at the barrier where the policemen were waiting, still watching.

  By the time he and Sean had squeezed their way through three of the coaches and stepped out onto the platform once more, the policemen had gone.

  ‘As sure as Mary’s the mother of God, we’ve got ourselves an informer inside the police,’ Sean said, forking his way steadily through a plate of ribbon pasta with clams and tender octopus. It was delicious, and he’d had no breakfast.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The raid on the farmhouse – the kidnappers were warned about that, you can bet your army pension on it. And those brake lines didn’t get cut by accident. Someone told the bastards that we were around, and where to find us.’

  ‘I agree.’

  They were sitting at an outdoor table of a restaurant beside the Grand Canal, a relatively short, straight and narrow waterway that pointed like a finger into the heart of the city. The buildings that ran along the canal were not just warehouses, they were palaces, built by the merchant-magnates of the nineteenth century so that they could count their profits being unloaded from the old wooden sailing ships while enjoying the comfort of their own sitting rooms. Two centuries later, the buildings still stood tall and proud, but plastic debris now lay strewn along the bottom of the waterway and graffiti sprayed on the central bridge entreated passers-by to do unnatural things to themselves. It was a rare expression of crudeness in this part of town. Dominating the canal’s far end stood the pillared church of Sant’Antonio Nuovo, and sprawled before it was a Christmas market of stalls overflowing with colourful fruit from southern Italy and craftware from more distant parts; while Triestines browsed up and down, two beggars armed with an accordion and flute preyed upon elderly women, hoping to be bribed with a few coins to go away, but they never retreated more than a few paces before they stopped to dip into the free samples of food on offer on all sides. At the centre of the market was a full-sized Nativity scene, complete with live donkey and goats that were chewing and tugging at the decorated Christmas tree. Music played, the winter sun shone bright, it was a scene of contentment, no one seemed to be in any hurry, but then no one in Trieste ever was – except, of course, for the kidnappers.

  It was while Harry was paying the bill for the pasta that he looked towards the seafront, and swore. Sean followed his gaze. The two policemen who had transported them to the station were parking their car on the pavement at the entrance to the canal. They were looking pointedly in their direction.

  ‘You know, Sean,’ Harry muttered, casting some spare change on the table as an additional tip, ‘I have a feeling that those gentlemen aren’t going to leave us alone. They still want us to leave.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you be agreeing with me, Mr Jones, that it’d be a terrible pity to leave this place without seeing more of the sights?’

  The policemen were now out of their car, shaking their heads in exasperation, reaching for their caps as they prepared to hunt Harry and Sean down. The sun was low, shining into their eyes, and as they approached, one of the officers failed to see the dog crap until it was already underfoot. He stopped suddenly, gave an undignified hop and grabbed his partner’s arm for support.

  ‘Stretch our legs, are you thinking?’ Sean muttered.

  ‘That is exactly what I am thinking.’

  ‘Then race you to the gates of Hell, Mr Jones.’

  They grabbed their bags and ran. With a shout of alarm, the police officers gave chase, but they had lost a few vital yards, and Harry and Sean disappeared into the crowds of the Christmas market. Every few seconds the policemen’s heads would pop up, peering above the shoppers as they tried to spot the fugitives, but they had almost lost them in the melee when suddenly Sean cried out. His legs were no longer young, unsuited to running from the police and dodging through crowds, and as he tried to avoid an elderly woman dressed in a huge fur coat tugging a reluctant miniature dog he stumbled and crashed into a stall, breaking the strap on his luggage and spilling it. For a moment he looked at it helplessly. Stopping would lose him any chance of getting away, but the bag had everything in it, including his wallet and passport. He had no time to think, the policemen were gaining. With a curse he abandoned the bag and hobbled after Harry.

  They turned one corner, then another, losing themselves again in the crowds. Sean’s lungs screamed in protest, his head was pounding, his legs felt like frozen twigs. He couldn’t go on much longer, but as he prepared to dash across an empty road hot on Harry’s heels he glanced over his shoulder and his heart lifted in relief at what he saw. Which was absolutely nothing. They had lost their pursuers. His senses flooded with relief, and he would have shouted with joy if he’d had the breath, but that was also the moment he realized he had done something very foolish. Drowning his moment of celebration was a roaring sound, a horn blaring in protest. He turned as quickly as he could, to discover a delivery van bearing down on him, almost on top of him. He had been looking the wrong way. And it was too late to save himself, he couldn’t move, the van couldn’t stop. The last thing he saw was the loo
k of terror twisted across the driver’s face.

  Sean was hit and hurled to the ground; that in itself came as no surprise. What did surprise him was that he knew anything about it, that he was still alive. He was lying in the gutter, winded, but not badly wounded, with Harry on top of him.

  For a moment, in shock, Sean’s world stood still. Staring deep into Harry’s eyes he saw flickers of concern mixed with grey flecks of relief, then he saw all the way down, to things that lay buried deep inside the other man. Sean couldn’t move, every physical reaction was frozen as his thoughts tumbled over a thousand rocks before falling like a waterfall through his mind. His fingers seized hold of Harry as though his life depended on it, as a few seconds earlier it had.

  ‘Luck of the Irish, eh, Sean?’ Harry eventually muttered, prising himself off the other man. ‘Stupid bugger.’

  Harry waved away the offers of help as strangers gathered round. Soon he and Sean were left on their own again, with Sean leaning on Harry’s arm, trying to stretch the ache from his limbs. He was still a little unsteady. ‘Come on,’ he whispered, ‘let’s go in here for a moment.’ He nodded towards the doorway of a nearby church – there seemed to be churches everywhere in Trieste, with their bells and colourful domes and pot pourri of religions. As they entered, he was still leaning on Harry, breathing heavily with shock.