The Memory Trap dda-19

by Anthony Price

  But Elizabeth was still frowning at him. 'What's the matter, Elizabeth?'

  She was still frowning. And so much so that even Paul Mitchell wanted to know what the matter was, also —

  'Lizzie — ?'

  'I think you should talk to Captain Cuccaro, David.'

  Now they both looked at her. But Mitchell cracked first. 'Uh-huh? And . . . what did Cuccaro say, Lizzie? Does he want to dummy1

  talk to the elusive Major, then? On his own account — ? Does he? Never mind the Russians?'

  But she shook off Mitchell and all his questions then, together with her frown. 'It's the Mafia who want to talk to Major Richardson, Cuccaro says. And . . . and, I think that's what he wants to talk to you about, David — '

  4

  The Italians had not sent a boy to do a man's job: Audley had concluded that already from his brief meeting with Captain Cuccaro when he'd come aboard. But that, in view of what was surely in their records, was hardly surprising. Only close-up it was even more evident.

  'Professore.'

  'Captain.' Additionally, Cuccaro was what Mrs Faith Audley would have called "a fine-looking man", as well as an elegant one in his immaculate designer-jeans and expensive shirt (complete with a curious bronze medallion on a chain round his neck). All of which made Audley himself feel even more crumpled and unprepossessing. "Thank you for joining us, Captain. Your assistance is much appreciated.'

  Cuccaro rolled easily with the boat's motion. 'I am here to facilitate your mission, Professore.' He gestured gracefully.

  'And, of course, to ensure your safety as well as your success.'

  There was no reason why the Italians should connect him dummy1

  with events in far-off Berlin. But there was now the extraordinary Mafia intrusion to be explained. 'My safety?'

  He let himself almost lose his balance.

  Cuccaro grinned suddenly. 'I am also grateful to you for this

  —' He swept a hand over the boat ' — these days, I command only a desk, you understand. So this is a most pleasant change — to be at sea again, Professore.'

  Small talk, was what Audley understood, even as he grabbed the nearest stanchion in order to keep his feet: if this was the way the game had to be played . . . then the boat first. And that curious medallion . . . which that last lurch had brought close enough for him to be able to make out a bearded head on it, surmounted not by a crown, but what looked like a German pickelhaub.

  'Is that so?' He managed to find an Audley-smile from somewhere. 'I wouldn't have thought this is your sort of boat, Captain.' He waved as best he could with his free hand to include the tattered awning and the flaking paint, glancing quickly at Elizabeth (whose expression still bore the remains of the impact of Cuccaro's grin: being dazzlingly smiled-at by handsome men was for her an outrage only a little short of being actually touched by any man, handsome or not). '"A smuggler's boat", Miss Loftus said — ?'

  'Yes.' Cuccaro grinned again. But this time it was a different smile. 'Or, it was until very recently.' He held up his hand, with a single brown finger raised, 'Do you hear that?'

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  The only thing Audley could hear was the engine. Which was just an engine, in the same way that the boat was just a boat.

  But evidently not to Captain Cuccaro.

  'Beautiful!' Cuccaro focused suddenly on Audley again, and was himself. 'It is ... an appropriate boat, let us say, Professore.'

  Audley listened to the engine again. All he could say for it was that it wasn't making much noise. But if it was a smuggler's boat, that was to be expected. 'You mean . . . it's unobtrusive, Captain?'

  "That also.' Cuccaro nodded, but seemed only half to agree.

  'The Guardia seized it up the coast, a few days back.' The faint American origins of his otherwise perfect English intruded. 'There are many such in these waters

  —''unobtrusive", as you say.' Another nod. 'And very fast, when speed is required.' He stared at Audley for a moment.

  'Most of the time, they hire out to the tourists . . . with maybe a little fishing, also. And then, one day —one night, they meet a bigger boat, by appointment.'

  'Uh-huh?' If Cuccaro wanted him to be interested in smuggling as a prelude to their own business, then he would be. 'Drugs, presumably?'

  'Drugs ... or what you will.' The medallion swung in its nest.

  'Cigarettes are still very popular with the smaller fry. And, of course, there are the local exports — the ancient artefacts . . .

  Roman and Greek from Campania and the south. Etruscan from the tombs in the north —they are much sought-after by dummy1

  foreign collectors. It is good steady business, Professore. If one is not too greedy.'

  Audley nodded politely. 'That's very interesting.' But two could play at this small-talk-game. 'That medal of yours, Captain — is that an ancient artefact?' He leaned forward, keeping tight hold of his stanchion, but couldn't quite make out the inscription. 'What does it say — ?'

  'My good luck piece?' Cuccaro looked down for an instant.

  ' "Wilhelm der Grosse Deutscher Kaiser" , Professore. " Koenig von Preusseri" .' He took the medal in his hand and turned it over.' " Zum Andenken an den hundersten Geburtstaf des grossen Kaisers Wilhelm I, 1797-22 Maerz-1897" .' He looked up at Audley. 'Not so very ancient. My grandfather picked it up on the Piavein 1918. My father wore it in his war. And now I wear it — for good luck, also.'

  'I see.' Audley had had his own smile ready and waiting. 'And you think we'll need good luck today, Captain? Or is it Major Richardson who needs the luck now?'

  No smile this time. 'He has been lucky so far. Now . . .

  perhaps you are right.'

  'With the Mafia after him?'

  'Among others.' Cuccaro turned towards Capri for a second, as though to judge its proximity. 'What is it that you want from him, Professore Audley?'

  'I merely want to ask him a few questions.'

  'About what?'

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  'I wish I knew.' But the truth wouldn't do, Audley could see.

  'About the old days, when he worked for us. Nothing to concern you, Captain — or Italy.' And that was also true. But as Kulik had had nothing to do with Germany, he'd best hedge that piece of truth. 'What is it that your Mafia wants with him, Captain?'

  'You do not know?' Cuccaro glanced at Elizabeth.

  'As it happens ... I don't.' The trouble with the truth was that, with his Italian record, it was quite simply unbelievable. But it was all he had. 'The fact is, Captain Cuccaro, he resigned from our service years ago. And then he went back to the army. But then he resigned from that. . . You might say that he was having bad luck then.'

  'Bad luck?'

  Audley dredged his memory for what, in its time, had been of no more than passing interest on the " Heard about poor old Peter?" level. 'He had a nasty road accident. Not his fault.'

  But memory, as always, came to his rescue: " Poor old Peter!

  Ran into a dirty great big lorry, right outside his flat.

  Smashed himself up properly, apparently — and his new Jag, too"; to which he had said " Is that so?" (and thought, from experience and with unfeeling disinterest, driving too fast, as usual—serve him right!). 'Not his fault . . . and then his mother died. So then he retired here, in Italy!'

  But Cuccaro was watching him. 'You knew him well, though, Professore?'

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  'I worked with him only once or twice.' He felt a vague irritation swelling up in his throat. 'I have not set eyes on him for fifteen years, Captain. And you have not yet answered my question: why is the Mafia interested in him?'

  Cuccaro looked away for a second, then back at him. 'He has a boat like this one. And an organization to go with it. Only ...

  his is an even better boat. And his organization, it would seem, is as good as his boat.' The stare became frankly disbelieving. 'And this . . . you did not know?'

  For a moment Audley could only stare back at him. 'Peter Richards
on — ?' He couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. 'You're saying — ?'

  '"Wrong profile"?' Mitchell raised an innocent eyebrow.

  The trouble was, it wasn't so utterly unthinkable, the next moment, as he thought about it — not, anyway, when he added premature retirement (and in comfort) to Richardson's restless spirit. It had been plain corrosive boredom more than anything else which had in the end parted him from R and D all those years ago, in spite of that wild special aptitude of his which had so captivated Fred Clinton. And boredom, as he well knew himself, was the father of mischief.

  But he still wanted more time to think. 'Is smuggling your business then, Captain?' He pretended to study the boat as he spoke, as though that was expected of him.

  Smuggling — ?

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  'No.'

  If smuggling wasn't the connection with Kulik, it was nothing, really — or, it needn't be, need it? Half the world's travellers, who filled the duty-free shops in every airport and chanced their arms with that extra bottle, were petty smugglers at heart —

  Brandy for the parson, 'Baccy for the clerk — and if Richardson had merely been supplying that ancient demand

  — ?

  'Neither is the Mafia my business.' Having waited in vain for him to come back, Cuccaro spoke more sharply. 'But Major Richardson interests them now. That is what the word in Naples is, the Guardia informants say. And that, perhaps, is why he has become . . . unavailable?'

  The cosy picture in Audley's mind dissolved. Brandy and

  'baccy ... or, up-dated, Lucky Strikes in exchange for the odd Greek vase or Etruscan funeral pot . . . that was one thing.

  But the Mafia —

  'What's he in to?' Mitchell could contain himself no longer.

  'Drugs are where the money is, aren't they?' And, once uncontained, he was irrepressible. 'And now what's it?

  "Crack" — ? Isn't that raising the stakes?'

  Money! That was what was wrong, damn it! That damn-well was the "wrong profile" — wasn't it? Except . . . that fifteen years made a nonsense of that cosy picture, too —did they?

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  'He's run out of money, has he?' He snapped himself back between them.

  Cuccaro frowned at him once more. 'He never had any money.'

  Now they were really at odds. 'He had plenty of money, Captain.' The gleaming Richardson-cars and the West Central flat were there in memory to support him. 'He had money from his mother.' Money had always been a huge plus in Fred Clinton's preferences, even before the aptitude tests: if you were heterosexual and well-heeled (and, for choice, not Cambridge!), then with Fred you were over the first fences, they always said. 'And she was rich.'

  'And then dead, too.' This time Mitchell was with him.

  Because, in his time, Paul Mitchell had been over those same fences, and knew them. And despised what he knew, too.

  'With a palazzo all of his very own — right, David?'

  Cuccaro shook his head. 'There was no money.'

  'No money?' Mitchell accepted the turnabout more readily.

  'No palazzo — ?'

  Cuccaro's lip curled. "There is a ... "palazzo", as you call it.

  But it was . . . how do you say? Mortgaged, is it?' He nodded.

  'And the Principessa was a great lady. So there was also credit. And bank loans, too.' The nod became a shake. 'He had no money. He had only her debts. And some of them were debts of honour.' He stared at Audley, not Mitchell. 'He had . . . "bad luck", you said, Professore — ?'

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  There was more. 'What else?'

  'She died. And she was a great lady, as I have said. So there was not too much inquiry then. But ... it seems now that all her little problems had suddenly become big ones, you see.'

  Cuccaro swayed and rolled with the boat's motion, so that his shrug was almost lost with it. 'There was perhaps a certain delicacy in asking questions which could only have made for greater sadness at the time, about her death . . . you understand, Professore?'

  'Yes.' From his own tangled childhood Audley understood far better than the man could imagine. But the hell with that!

  (And, for that matter, the hell also with whoever hadn't done his job properly, back in the early seventies, on Peter Richardson for Fred Clinton — at least for the time being!).

  'Yes.' Mitchell looked sidelong at him, and then back at Cuccaro. 'But. . . hold on a moment. The palazzo —' The damn palace seemed to have become an obsession.

  'For God's sake, Mitchell — '

  'No.' Mitchell shook him off. 'It was mortgaged . . . and all the rest. But he never lost it — Palazzo Castellamare di San Lorenzo — ' He fixed on the Italian ' — he never lost it, in spite of everything ... So he's been cruising these waters from the start, has he? Paying off the interest — ? And then the capital, too? And then more — ?' He rounded on Audley suddenly. 'It's a bloody showpiece, David — the Palazzo Castellamare di Major Peter Richardson: that's what Rome Station said. The ruddy guides on the tourist coaches point it dummy1

  out. Blue-water swimming pool, big white yacht by the private jetty — nothing like this in view, of course.' He swept a hand over the smuggler's boat. 'But he must have been at it for years, to turn his hard luck into all that!' He returned to the Italian. 'How long have they known about it? Or suspected it, even?'

  Not long, thought Audley quickly, watching Cuccaro's face.

  But then, why should they have suspected anything? There had been no black marks against Major Richardson, he would have passed simply as a rich expatriate Englishman bringing his own money to restore his Italian family fortune.

  Cuccaro sighed, and gestured eloquently as only an Italian or a Frenchman could, to gloss over his Guardia colleagues'

  failure. 'Not long since, it seems.'

  'Only when the Mafia got interested in his act?' Mitchell wasn't letting go. 'Uh-huh?'

  Cuccaro's expression hardened. 'It is possible that he has become greedy, after many years of keeping out of their way.

  But . . . there was no official inquiry into him until recently —

  that is true. And that is how the matter of his mother's death came to light. But that will not be pursued further now, I am informed.'

  "The great lady" was safe, if not her son. But that, Cuccaro was informing them, was none of either his business or theirs, anyway. The business in hand was to take Richardson while making sure that Professore Audley neither came to dummy1

  grief nor caused any, as he had done in the past.

  'Of course.' They were agreed there, actually. What Butler expected of him was results, double quick. But results diplomatically achieved, also. 'I am grateful for your frankness, Captain. You have clarified certain . . . aspects of our mission which disturbed us — Sir Jack Butler and Mr Henry Jaggard.' He threw the names in for respectability.

  But when they failed to melt Captain Cuccaro he decided to go for broke. 'And the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, representing Her Majesty's Government.' Only that still didn't seem to work. And if neither Her Majesty nor Mrs Thatcher could blot out his record after all these years, then he must resort to desperate extremes, with Capri altogether too close for comfort now. 'So, if I may, I will take you into our confidence — ?'

  'Professore.' With Capri looming, Cuccaro was under the whip too. So, in spite of all his doubts and the lurch of the boat as it cut through the wake of another Capri-Napoli water-bus, he sketched a bow.

  'You have not traced Major Richardson yet?' He allowed only two seconds for agreement. 'And neither have we. And that disturbed us. Because we didn't know why he's suddenly become so ... unavailable?' He smiled. 'But now we know.

  Thanks to you.'

  Cuccaro reached across his chest to take hold of his Kaiser Wilhelm good luck piece. 'But you have rendezvous, I am told

  — ?'

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  That was what he wanted, of course.

  'Not exactly,' said Mitchell. But then he looked at Audley.


  'Only in a general sort of way —' Then he looked past Audley, towards Capri ' — a general locality, I mean, David.'

  'And where is that, sir?' The oddly-Americanized "Sir"

  betrayed the Italian's dislike: technically, Mitchell also rated

  "professore". But Mitchell and Cuccaro were Anglo-Italian chalk-and-cheese.

  'Please!' Audley held up his hand. 'You ... or ... the authorities . . . want to talk to Major Richardson, I take it—?'

  Cuccaro eyed him warily. 'There are questions to be asked.

  And to be answered.'

  'About his smuggling activities?'

  'If that is what they are.' The Italian paused. 'Then —yes, Professore.'

  That was it, of course. Until that sudden Mafia interest had given his game away, Richardson had had everything going for him: his pre-retirement career had not only given him all the requisite smuggling skills to add to his blue-blooded local connections, but it had also endowed him with a certain respectability, as an ex-Intelligence officer. But then, when the balloon finally had gone up, the Italians must at once have thought more than twice about him, with the American Sixth Fleet so often swinging at anchor across this bay, in NATO's main base in the Central Mediterranean: that perfect cover for smuggling — or even the smuggling itself — might dummy1

  cover other enterprises, eh?

  He ought to have thought of that. And, by God, it still beckoned him now, as he thought about it! At least it was something Captain Cuccaro would believe — Perfidious Albion! — he would believe that, if nothing else!

  'Question-and-answer?' Mitchell moved into his silence, just as warily. 'Or arrest?'

  That was going too fast. 'Please, Dr Mitchell —'

  'Not arrest — ' Cuccaro spread his hands ' — say . . .

  "protective custody" rather, sir.' He switched back to Audley.

  'We do not desire . . . difficulties, Professore. But there are other matters — other considerations . . . which, at present, are not clear to us ... at this moment, you understand?'