A flush of anger picked out on her cheeks but she remained smiling. ‘You thought it was a nice enough arse last time.’
This was how it had been in New York. He hadn’t felt so emasculated by the approach then.
‘We’re the same,’ Clarissa continued. ‘Not quite, but almost. That’s why it was so good. And will be again.’
He’d forgotten the disarming way she looked at anyone she was talking to, with those unnaturally pale eyes. He wanted her like hell. And she knew it.
‘Go away Clarissa,’ he said weakly.
‘I’ve had a long journey,’ she said. ‘I’m tired and I want to go to bed.’
‘They’ve probably got rooms.’
‘I’m in one.’
‘Stop it Clarissa!’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘This is like.…’ Charlie waved his hands, as if he were trying to feel for the expression. ‘… it isn’t real.’
‘It’s real enough for me.’
‘Perhaps I haven’t had the practice.’
‘You’re being a bore. You were never that, Charlie.’
‘I was never raped, either.’
‘I was once: it was fun.’
‘Jesus!’ said Charlie.
‘I never knew his name. He was a chauffeur, in Spain. Being raped is a common female fantasy, you know?’
Clarissa rolled off the bed on the opposite side from him and said. ‘Help me with the covers, Charlie.’
He hesitated. Then he got up from the chair and pulled them back on his side. She came over to him. ‘And now unzip me.’
When the dress parted he saw she was not wearing a bra. She faced him as the dress fell to her feet and her hardnippled breasts pushed up for attention. She reached for him and pulled his face to her. ‘You didn’t kiss me when I came in,’ she said.
He did now, biting at her and she came back at him, just as anxiously. She brought her head back, panting and said, ‘See! Just the same.’
‘You make it seem as if you’re trying to prove something.’
‘Come to bed and prove something to me,’ she said.
For Charlie it had been a long time and he was nervous, so he finished too quickly. She let him rest, holding him against her breast and gently stroking his head. Then she pushed him down and said, ‘Now do it properly.’
He coaxed her gently, with his hands and mouth, holding back until she was almost ready before pushing into her. She strained up to meet him, head taut back for the groan that went on and on. When she spoke, the words quivered. ‘That was properly,’ she said.
He turned onto his side, but didn’t part from her and she held him tightly, to make sure he didn’t.
‘No point in all that posturing, was there?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Guilty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry?’
‘No.’
‘Neither am I,’ she said. ‘But then I knew I wouldn’t be.’
‘What about all those animals you were supposed to be looking after?’
‘I’ve found a hobby I like better,’ she said.
Sir Alistair Wilson stood before the easels, comparing the photographs of Henry Walsingham and Richard Semingford. Ordinary, unremarkable people, he thought. But spies and traitors always looked like ordinary people, with mortgages and bills and kids at school and cars that went wrong.
The director turned at Harkness’s entry.
‘The replies are in,’ announced the deputy, before he sat down. ‘Thrown up a couple of things about Semingford.’
‘What?’
‘He’s overdrawn, by about five hundred pounds. And there’s an affair.’
‘Don’t these damned people ever think of blackmail before they take their trousers down?’ said Wilson. ‘Who is she?’
‘Lady Billington’s secretary, a girl named Jane Williams.’
‘Background?’
‘Admiral’s daughter, from Devonport. Unmarried. Excellent grades in her civil service examinations.’
‘How old?’
‘Thirty.’
‘How old is Semingford?’
‘Forty-two.’
‘The middle-aged wish to be young again: that’s familiar too,’ said the director. ‘What about the security man?’
‘Walsingham’s financial affairs seem okay.’
‘And the Australian inquiry?’
‘Jill Walsingham’s mother had a hysterectomy,’ reported Harkness. As an afterthought, he added, ‘It appears to have been successful.’
‘Semingford’s the most likely then?’
‘I’ve told the people in Rome to concentrate upon him,’ said Harkness. ‘But it’s not much, is it?’
The other man’s caution was justified, conceded Wilson. ‘Not really,’ he agreed.
‘Going to tell Naire-Hamilton?’
‘No,’ said Wilson. ‘I’ll wait until there’s something firmer.’ He looked back at the photographs. ‘It’s taking longer than I expected.’
‘It’s only been three days.’ Harkness was surprised at the remark. ‘And this is how it’s got to be done, if they want discretion.’
‘I know,’ said Wilson. ‘I’d just like a more positive development.’
‘There is one.’
Wilson looked up.
‘Hotovy didn’t make his contact point. There were backup rendezvous spots, for succeeding days. He hasn’t shown at any of them.’
‘What have you done?’
‘Put the Czech embassy and all the residences under observation, since dawn. He’s not been seen. Or the kids.’
‘What about the wife?’
‘Still no sign that she’s returned from Brno.’
‘He’s gone then.’
‘He was genuine,’ said Harkness.
‘If he’d crossed at once, he’d have been all right.’
‘It would have been a hell of a coup, to have got him.’
‘So it will be to get the bastard in Rome,’ said Wilson.
10
Igor Solomatin arrived early at Doney’s, wanting a pavement table from which he could see in both directions along the Via Veneto: he had people placed to guarantee that the Italian arrived alone, but still wanted personally to be sure. The evening promenade swirled back and forth in front of him. A parade of peacocks, thought the Russian. It wasn’t criticism. The reverse, in fact. Solomatin knew he’d miss it. He’d miss the svelte, fur-coated women who always seemed to favour beige, and immaculate men whose shoes were always polished and who didn’t look effeminate carrying wrist bags. And being able to sit outside cafés like now, and have waiters appear content to serve him instead of enduring the belligerent truculence of the steam-filled caverns of Moscow. And the clothes. Solomatin did not have the bulky Russian heaviness: he’d been chosen for the posting because the slightness, black hair and black eyes fitted easily into the Latin surroundings. Reverting to the square-shouldered, trouser-flapping creations of Moscow would be one of the small regrets he’d have. But very small. The Russian capital was where the promotion was: and Solomatin knew his promotion was inevitable after what was going to happen here. He’d been extremely fortunate.
Solomatin monitored the approach and checked the safety signals of his ground men before waving to the Italian whom he had cultivated for the past six months. Emilio Fantani was no longer the male prostitute he had been when he first arrived in Rome, but he still swayed between the tables with hip-swivelling suggestiveness. Solomatin noticed the eyes of several interested men as well as hopeful women follow the movement. Although he admired them, the clothes were too gaudy for Solomatin, silk floral shirt, black trousers and chamois jacket so thin as to be almost transparent, slung casually across the Italian’s shoulders. Fantani had a jangle of gold bracelets on either wrist, in addition to the Cartier watch, and there was gold, too, circling his throat. He was a thin, wiry man, never appeari
ng properly relaxed, with eyes that flickered constantly. Solomatin had never decided if he were seeking danger or prey.
When he reached the table, Fantani seemed out of breath, which Solomatin knew to be an affectation. ‘I’ve kept you. Forgive me,’ he said.
‘I was early.’ Solomatin always spoke carefully when addressing Fantani, not because of any problem with his vocabulary, which was excellent, but because of his accent. Fantani had been born in a peasant hut in Calabria, one of the poorest regions in Italy, but had lived off his wits in Rome since he was fourteen. He had a street-wise intelligence that was often disconcerting. Shortly after they met, Fantani had suddenly questioned Solomatin’s pronunciation and queried outright whether he was Italian. Solomatin had talked of his birth in Tarvisio, on the Austrian border and of being brought up bi-lingually. Fantani appeared to accept it but at the time it frightened the Russian.
They shook hands and Fantani said, ‘I was pleased to get your call.’
With every reason, thought Solomatin. It had been a careful softening-up period to convince Fantani he was being considered for graduation from cat burglar to organized crime. They had provided the man with four perfect robberies, with alarm systems and house plans and safe combinations that had taken the KGB squad months to assemble.
‘It’s big,’ said Solomatin. ‘I wanted to get everything right.’
A waiter came over and Fantani quickly ordered an Americano, impatient with the interruption.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Jewellery.’
‘Where?’
‘The British ambassador has a villa at Ostia. It’s in the safe there.’
Fantani’s face creased. ‘That’s not just a robbery,’ he said. ‘That’s political.’
More than you think, thought Solomatin. He said, ‘You’re not scared?’
‘The security will be strong.’
‘I’ve got all the details.’
‘It’ll be difficult to fence.’
‘It’ll be impossible,’ said Solomatin. ‘More than half is antique. It would be identified at once.’
Fantani stopped with the drink halfway to his lips. ‘What’s the point of stealing what we can’t get rid of?’
‘We’re going to sell it back.’
‘To the ambassador?’
Solomatin patiently shook his head. ‘To the insurers. It’s a common practice. The police don’t like it, but the insurers do. It’s cheaper to pay out a percentage than the full amount.’
‘We’ll do it together?’
‘I’ll tell you everything you have to do.’ Solomatin had been maintaining a note of the time and was ready when Vasily Leonov edged onto a table three places away. It was unnecessary but Leonov had insisted upon using the meeting to identify his victim. The assassin showed no recognition. Within minutes of being seated, his concentration was entirely upon Fantani. Solomatin was too highly trained to show any outward reaction, but he felt an inner clutch of coldness: it was like watching a snake manoeuvre itself to strike at some tethered, helpless animal.
‘How much information have you got?’ said Fantani.
‘Everything. Perimeter protection, alarm systems, safe location. The lot.’
‘It sounds good.’
‘It is.’
‘When do I see it?’
Leonov had said he only wanted a few moments. ‘Now,’ said Solomatin.
Fantani’s apartment overlooked the Piazza del Popolo, a garish, harsh place of over-bright lighting, steel-framed furniture, see-through glass tables and black and white decor – an amalgam of a dozen film sets. Curtains were opened and closed from a central, electrically controlled panel, which also operated a television and stereo installation positioned like neat birds’ nests in a lattice of tubular metal. It was the first time Solomatin had been there and Fantani was anxious to impress.
‘A drink …?’ He hesitated, gesturing towards a stone jar full of thickly rolled cigarettes. ‘… or something else?’
‘Whisky,’ said Solomatin. If he got the promotion he expected on his return to Moscow, he’d be able to buy Scotch at the concessionary stores: like the clothes, it was something he had come to enjoy.
Solomatin carried with him a slim document case. From it he took the information he had promised in the café, setting it out on one of the glass-topped tables.
‘This is the big one, Emilio.’
‘I’ve been waiting a long time.’
‘It’s got to work.’
‘It will.’ The assurance was too quick, too eager to please.
‘Let’s go through it.’
It took a long time, because Solomatin was aware his future was dependent upon it and was therefore determined there would not be any misunderstanding. He made the Italian study the perimeter protection, recite it back to him to guarantee it was memorized, and then study the plan of the villa and draw it himself, so that he would know the location of every room. Having established the design in Fantani’s mind, the Russian insisted he itemize the entry points and mark upon his drawing the burglar protection. The final test was to recite the combination of the safe. It was fifteen minutes before Fantani got the numbering and dial changes correct; he was sweating and most of the bombastic composure was gone. Solomatin gathered up his own copies and returned them to the document case; if anything went wrong – which he was sure it couldn’t – the only evidence would be in the Italian’s own handwriting.
‘It won’t be easy,’ Fantani was under no delusions. ‘But there’s a lot here. When do you want me to do it?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
There was an almost imperceptible intake of breath. Then Fantani grinned in agreement. Solomatin remembered the way Leonov had looked at the man in the café and felt a sudden surge of pity. It was brief but it annoyed him; there wasn’t any place for stupidity like that.
It was past midnight before Solomatin returned to his own apartment on the Via Mecanate. He put on the lights in a prepared sequence and sat down to wait. Leonov arrived after thirty minutes.
‘Tomorrow night?’ asked Leonov.
‘Yes.’
‘Sure he can do it?’
‘We’ve tested him on four other burglaries; he’s good.’
‘He’s flashy,’ said Leonov. ‘Is he homosexual?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Don’t like homosexuals,’ said Leonov.
From their protracted observation, the Russians knew Charlie Muffin lived alone and there was no danger of sudden discovery. Nevertheless they were careful breaking into the Battersea flat, positioning lookouts in the corridor as well as the entrance to the block. Three men actually entered the apartment. Together with material that had been sent from Moscow, they carried an extensive range of workmen’s tools; one had a small, battery-operated vacuum cleaner, to take the mess away with them afterwards. When they left, they removed the listening device that had been implanted in the telephone.
11
The table in the dressing room was set with a damask cloth and laid with glasses, ice bucket, bottles and water jug. It was within reaching distance of the chaise longue upon which Lady Billington lay, goblet in hand. ‘Pell and Mell didn’t like it,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Charlie.
‘The cats. They spend all their time with me. They’re locked up with Jane and they don’t like it.’
Charlie didn’t imagine that Jane Williams would like it much either. He carried his drink to the bureau. He knelt before it, released the securing bolt and eased sideways the left-hand pedestal leg. The face of the floor-mounted safe was about two feet in diameter, the combination dial snug in the centre.
‘Hector used to suffer from allergies,’ said Lady Billington. ‘Took a course of injections for it once.’
‘I tried,’ said Charlie. ‘It didn’t work. Have I your permission to open the safe?’
‘Do you need it?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Go ahead.’
Lady Billington was leaning forwards towards the table. ‘Should there be?’
‘It’s not listed,’ admitted Charlie. ‘But I would have expected one.’
‘Better ask Hector,’ she said. ‘How’s your drink?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
Charlie lifted the covering upon a miniature cavern carved out below. The cleverness of the concealment denied the normal facilities of shelves and the boxes were stacked one on top of the other. Charlie lifted them out, first to the mouth of the safe and then across the room to arrange before Lady Billington. Automatically he separated the newer-looking containers from the old. Seeing the division she said, ‘There’s a lot of heirlooms.’
‘I’ve read the policy,’ said Charlie.
‘Don’t wear the old stuff much,’ she confessed. ‘Most of it is too big. I feel like a shire horse decorated for the country fair.’
‘It’s an awful lot of brass,’ said Charlie, flattening the noun for the north-country meaning. She laughed.
It was a dazzling kaleidoscope of wealth, the red of rubies and iced white of diamonds, the dull white of pearls and the greens and blues of emeralds and sapphires. Briefly he was reminded of the bridge lights over the Thames on those stumbling nights towards Battersea.
‘Better have a drink before we start,’ suggested Lady Billington.
‘Why not?’ said Charlie. It didn’t seem he was alone in drinking when he was bored. Her appearance wasn’t affected yet; perhaps it had only just started.
‘Will I have to do this every year?’ The hiss was more obvious when she spoke.
‘Probably,’ said Charlie.
‘How do you want to do it?’
‘As it comes, I suppose.’
‘Cheers,’ she said.
‘Cheers.’
Charlie might once have argued it impossible for it to be tedious physically to handle one and a half million pounds’ worth of jewellery, but it was. He had to locate on his list whatever Lady Billington produced to compare with the accompanying photograph and description, check the setting and stone content and then restore it to the safe to avoid confusion with what remained. Quickly all awareness of what he was touching disappeared. Cosmetic surgeons doing breast operations probably felt the same way.
Madrigal for Charlie Muffin Page 7