October Men

by Anthony Price

  The emotions beneath the simple words were on a cruelly tight rein. But what was clear from both (unless she was a marvellously accomplished liar even when there was no need for lies) was that the little carrier of second-class mail, the limping salesman of agricultural machinery, had been a big man to his Rhinemaiden, and that he had impressed her every bit as much as he had impressed Eugenio Narva. And if that didn’t fit the pictures in the file it was the pictures that deceived: like the poet said, it was all in the eye of the beholder— the cornflower-blue eye.

  “But then he was different…”

  No one seemed to want to ask the next question, in the hope that the answer would come unasked.

  “He was worried; he was terribly worried each time he went on a sales trip. And when he came back he was so tired—instead of taking the children out he pretended he was still getting over the flu—he’d just had a nasty bout of it in Moscow—“

  “He pretended?” Audley repeated gently.

  “He pretended he’d been to the doctor and got some little white pills he took, but he hadn’t been at all—when I went to the doctor about Lotte’s tonsils I asked him, and he said Richard hadn’t been near him in ages. … He was sick—he wouldn’t eat and so he lost weight—but it was worry he was sick with. And I knew it wasn’t the business because Frau Krauss told me how well they were doing, and how pleased they were with Richard—she is the sales director’s secretary—“

  Sophie paused, taking a deep breath, as though she felt the reins slipping and needed time to grip them again.

  “The lie about the doctor—I thought we had no secrets until then. So I asked him outright: I said if he had something bad on his mind I had a right to share it, just as I shared the good things.”

  “You thought it was something to do with his work for us?”

  “It was what I was always afraid of, yes. But he said it was not that. And then he told me of his meeting with Eugenio—with Signor Narva … and of the plans he had for us to come to the West.”

  “You had talked about escaping before?”

  “To the West?” Sophie gave Audley a bitter little smile. “Oh yes, Dr. Audley—we dreamed of it. We dreamed—of one day.”

  “But he never told you what he was going to give in exchange for his dream?”

  Sophie shook her head. “No … but he said that this time there could be danger. He said it would not be easy, as it was for you. And then he told me what to do when Herr Westphal came for me. That was all.”

  “Except you weren’t to tell us about Westphal, eh?”

  Richardson, watching her intently, could not decide how much lay still untold and how much had gone over her golden head—she was stunning enough to fog anyone’s judgement. But if that when was genuine recall and not a slip of the tongue—when Herr Westphal came—it was the final dead giveaway that Hotzendorff himself hadn’t banked on being around for the pick-up.

  And even if her memory had played her false, or even if her husband had just been his careful self, preparing for the worst, it still amounted to the same thing. For if he couldn’t yet decide about Sophie, whether she was a good liar as well as a good wife, he had decided at last about Little Bird.

  After flying for so long in the safety of the woods, Little Bird had broken cover to soar high and free—where the birds of prey were always waiting for little birds. He had known the risk that they would swoop on him, but Sophie made the risk worth while; for someone like her the chance of a few rich years in the sun would be enough for any man. All the theories and countertheories were resolved in her.

  “That is true, Dr. Audley.” Sophie regarded the big man gravely, as though she understood that the implied rebuke was fair. “But let me say this: my Richard never cheated you—he always served you honestly.”

  “I didn’t say he didn’t.”

  So Audley had succumbed to her too, or at least he was being gentle to her. For her Richard had undoubtedly placed other men in jeopardy by attempting his private coup, the men of his own delivery network in Russia and in East Germany.

  “I didn’t want him to go—do you think I wanted him to go back to Moscow?” Sophie’s voice rose. “I begged him not to go back there. But he said it was all too far gone—he had his obligations. All his life he—he had obligations—he never let anyone down. But he said now he was just thinking of us—“

  “Sophie, my dear—“ Narva took a step towards her, uncertainly.

  Poor old Eugenio Narva, thought Richardson, watching the pain and irresolution in the man’s face, as out of place on it as flowers on a fortress. His sin had caught him out with this ultimate refinement of cruelty: not just his sense of guilt but the powerful ghost of a self-sacrificing husband lay between him and the woman. Ten billion lire and an infinity of Hail Marys weren’t enough to beat that alliance.

  “Ha-hmm—professore—“

  Somehow little Rat face had entered the room without anyone taking the least bit of notice.

  “Professore—“ Boselli began nervously.

  But then unobtrusiveness was probably another of his skills. And, come to that, it was hard to imagine those rather timid eyes lining up an automatic—the whole weird deception of the man was remarkable!

  “—We—the General has a line cleared to—“ the eyes flicked over the others “—a line cleared.” So the two names had worked their magic. Moscow was on the line.

  XVI

  THE BLEACHED STONES of the dry watercourse were treacherously unstable, as though the last of the winter torrents hadn’t been strong enough to settle them firmly into their final positions. Already Boselli had nearly broken his ankle on one, saved only by his stout new country boots.

  Unfortunately, the boots were also stiff and uncomfortable, and neither in shape nor colour did they match his city suit. But then the suit itself had come far down in the world in the last twenty-four hours: it was dusty and rumpled—it looked as though he had slept in it, which was close to the truth—and there were signs of serious damage to the knees and elbows, the souvenirs of Ostia.

  Boselli wondered unhopefully whether he could add the suit to his growing list of expenses. The boots, he had already decided, were a legitimate charge on the state, being the result of a direct command from the General, but for the rest he would have to consult the appropriate schedule. Maria was always very hot on his recovering the most minute expenses, down to the smallest bus fare, insisting on checking them all herself before he submitted them. But he had never before had anything like the bizarre items now entered in his little book, so bizarre that he would never dare show them to her. He would have to pretend he had lost the book, meekly accepting the contempt that the lie would incur.

  “Keep your head down, Pietro,” snapped the General out of nowhere. “Keep your head down and put your coat on—and then come up here.”

  Boselli looked about him wildly, clutching the precious tape recorder to his chest. Better a broken ankle than a broken tape recorder —it was small, but it had an expensive weight and feel to it even apart from its contents.

  “My coat?”

  “They’re not blind, man. That white shirt of yours stands out like a surrender flag. Cover it up!”

  The shirt blended in rather well with the stones, thought Boselli, and his jacket felt like an overcoat in the heat. But an order was an order.

  The General lay full length in the dirt, half under a bush on the lip of the bank, a large pair of binoculars beside him. Boselli began to scramble up, his boots slipping in the loose pebbles. When he had reached the level of the General’s feet he stopped, steadying himself with his free hand.

  “Beside me—here,” ordered the General, indicating a dusty patch just within the shadow of the bush. It was clear that he expected Boselli to prostrate himself similarly, which was all very well for someone in battle dress and combat jacket, but which would put the finishing touch to the suit’s degradation.

  Unhappily he edged his way up the last stage of the incli
ne and stretched himself alongside his master.

  “Good. Now have a look at the place,” said the General briskly, offering the binoculars.

  It was just as hot in the shadow as in the open, but the General showed no sign of discomfort. In fact quite the opposite: he radiated an air of well-being and good humour—it was obvious that he was enjoying himself playing at being an operational commander again after so many desk-ridden years.

  And so he might, thought Boselli, because no ordinary commander would have been able to cut through all the interdepartmental, inter-force rivalries so easily. When the General whispered, people moved; when he spoke they jumped; when he growled they broke the sound barrier. He had known this before, but he had never participated in it actively, and the memory of what he himself had achieved in the past few hours using the General’s name steadied him now. There were morale-raising rewards in pretending to be a man of action, always provided one could keep out of the front line.

  As if to support this conclusion came the distant sound of the spotter plane, making its second pass exactly on schedule. It droned high over their heads, corrected its course to pass directly over the hill and disappeared over the mountains beyond.

  Boselli wedged his dark glasses above his brow, blinking for a moment in the harsh light, wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers, and accepted the binoculars.

  It took him ten fumbling seconds to adjust them—the General must be as blind as a bat—and then the hilltop came up in focus, first the vines, then the outbuildings, and finally the dilapidated farmhouse itself. But there was not a sign of movement anywhere, and he could see nothing more in close-up than he had been able to see with the naked eye half a mile down the gulley of the watercourse, in the grove of trees where the cars were hidden.

  He lowered the binculars and stared at the landscape around. The ground directly ahead was bare and scrubby for perhaps half a mile, maybe more, until the first row of vines. Away to the right he could see the naked line of the track which must lead to the farm from the road. It was poor country and the wine from those grapes would be harsh—a land of bare subsistence living.

  “Well?”

  Boselli shrugged. “If this is the place—it looks uninhabited.”

  “It is the place.”

  “They could be lying.”

  He realised that he didn’t know—would never know—who “they” were. It had been just a voice calling the number they had given from a public callbox—at the Stazione Termini.

  “Disobeying an order coming all the way from the Kremlin?” The General snorted. “I really don’t think that’s very likely. Besides, I know it is the place.”

  Boselli waited for enlightenment.

  “According to the local police it is owned by the brothers Giolitti, but unless I’m very much mistaken their real name is Prezzolini … and they were both founder-members of the Bastard’s execution squad in the old days.” The General nodded up towards the hill speculatively. “This is the place.”

  He turned back to Boselli. “And now, Pietro—you have arranged everything?”

  “Yes, General—“ Boselli checked his watch, “—the helicopter will be here on the hour. The spotter plane—“

  “That was on time. It has made two passes.” The General nodded. “Just enough to alert them, but not quite enough to frighten them. The chopper will do that.”

  “And it is necessary to frighten them?”

  “Oh, yes. That is the psychology of it—Dr. Audley’s psychology. You must remember that this is really his operation, Pietro. We have merely implemented it.”

  Boselli had been remembering little else in his spare moments ever since that first call to Moscow, and he was no nearer resolving the contradictions in the General’s behaviour. For two things were clear to him beyond all else: the General wanted George Ruelle dead—and the General was proposing to let George Ruelle slip through his fingers.

  Admittedly, any attempt to take Ruelle from his hilltop would almost certainly result in the death of the Englishwoman, which would be regrettable. But the English had only themselves to blame for the situation, and the deaths of Armando Villari and the policeman, never mind that old score from 1943, demanded final settlement. The General was an honourable man, of course, and would keep his word—Boselli had no quarrel with that. What he could not reconcile was that the General had agreed to give his word in the first place.

  “General—“ Boselli searched for a way of saying what was in his mind, or at least some of it, and came to the conclusion that it was probably written on his face anyway.

  “We must let Dr. Audley save his good lady first,” said the General. “After that—we shall see how things develop. But now I would like to hear that tape of yours, eh?”

  Biselli unzipped the black leather case and drew the recorder out.

  “From the beginning, General?”

  “I think so. I know you said over the phone that it was not exactly informative.”

  “Except where the Russian—Panin—said that he had given orders that the Party would find out where Ruelle was hiding, General. Otherwise he denied everything.”

  “No leakage of secrets? No traitor?”

  Boselli shook his head. “He insisted that the German’s death was due to natural causes—that the record was correct.”

  “And did Dr. Audley seem surprised—or disappointed?”

  “No, General—not at all.”

  “Of course he didn’t, Pietro. He never expected the Russians to admit anything. Like all savages they are very sensitive about such things.”

  The General’s mouth twisted sardonically. “And frankly, if I was in their place I wouldn’t have admitted anything either.”

  “And yet he trusted them to get him the information he wanted.”

  “And was not disappointed, Pietro—for here we are—“ the General nodded towards the hill, “—and there the Bastard is.”

  Boselli frowned. The General’s high good humour was positively unsettling, but this was no time to suggest by further questions that he, Boselli, was out of sympathy with it because he was too stupid to understand what was going on. He had never thought of himself as stupid before, but it was clear that he had missed the significance of whatever it was that pleased the General.

  He reached forward to the tape recorder.

  “But of course he didn’t trust them,” said the General. “It is as well for you to understand that, because you may have to deal with this man Audley again and you must learn how his mind works.”

  The General paused thoughtfully. “He has a good mind, this Englishman—a Renaissance mind. He knows how to threaten without making threats.”

  “He threatened them—the Russians?”

  “Oh yes. But not in so many words. What he did was to give them the blueprint of the threat—the materials … a—what do you call it? —a do-it-yourself kit. That is what he gave them—a do-it-yourself kit!”

  He grinned boyishly at Boselli, as though his knowledge of such a plebeian thing as do-it-yourself was surprising.

  “Don’t worry, Pietro—your instinct was right. No one in his right mind trusts a Communist to trade honestly, they are worse than Neapolitans. But you must remember what Audley said to the man Panin that first time at Positano.”

  “He was—very frank.”

  “Indeed he was. He offered to trade one piece of information for another, and to show his good faith he offered his own information in advance. But what else did he give?”

  Boselli thought back. At the time he had thought the Englishman had been unnecessarily talkative, both as regards events in England and in Italy.

  “He made sure the Russian knew that he was personally involved —that his wife’s life was at stake. He said there had been a shooting in England—“ the General’s manicured left forefinger marked off each item on the fingers of his right hand, “—and a worse one in Italy. He emphasised that he knew the KGB was not to blame—that the agent Korbel and t
he Bastard were no better than terrorists—and that the authorities in both countries were prepared to offer terms not only to save the woman but also to avoid unnecessary scandal. He said if the newspapers here got hold of it, with the elections approaching, they would make a feast of it, and nobody wanted that—it would only benefit the neo-Fascists and the trouble-makers. He—“ The General stopped as he saw the light of understanding in Boselli’s eyes, “—you see, Pietro?”

  Boselli saw—and saw that he had been absurdly slow in catching on.

  The deal—the trading of information—was a fiction to enable the Russians to take his orders and to give their own without loss of face. The traitor in Moscow was of no importance to the Englishman compared with his wife, and he had served notice that if any harm befell her he would blow the whole scandal wide open.

  It mattered not at all that the KGB was for once blameless. Either the world would refuse to believe it, and they would be branded as kidnappers and murderers at a time when the civilised world was sick of such crimes; or they would be revealed publicly as the incompetent employers of kidnappers and murderers, incapable of controlling their own agents. And the fact that this was often true enough made not the least difference: what mattered was that it should not be seen to be true by the man in the street.

  “You see, Pietro?”

  Boselli nodded. But what he still did not see was why the General, as a lifetime Red-hater, was so happy to go along with the Englishman’s plan.

  “Good!” The General looked at his watch. “Now you can play me the tape.”

  By the time they got back to the cars the Englishmen had arrived: they were sitting on the pine needles, talking quietly for all the world as though they were waiting for a picnic to begin. Indeed, they seemed more relaxed now than at any time since he had first met them, during which no immediate danger had threatened them. And since they might be both dead within half an hour this must be a conscious display of that celebrated British phlegm of which they were so proud, but which Boselli had always imagined stemmed from a simple lack of imagination.