paths winding among desirable holiday residences tucked behind walls and gardens, or separated by tiny hillside vineyards —But it was a long walk, by God!
Maybe not surprising, at that . . . Or, trying to imagine Richardson short of cash was the first challenge: with Peter the money had always been evident if not just short of flashy
— not just the always-new car (and the always new, but never serious, girl), but also the throwaway asides (that first time he had known more about Cheltenham racecourse than Cheltenham GCHQ). And it had been old money too, everyone had assumed (of the sort old Fred Clinton notoriously preferred in his recruits): old blue-blooded maternal money, derived from the legendary principessa and her palazzo inheritance. Fred had been almost as happy with that as with the alpha-plus results from the aptitude tests . . .
although, as it had transpired, someone had blundered there too, in not discerning that there had been no true inclination towards scholarship, let alone the happy drudgery of research, to go with those special aptitudes —
There were blue flowers here, trailing in wild profusion in an overgrown hedge beside a vineyard, with the harbour below like a mill-pond full of toy boats. But in fact . . . they weren't flowers at all: they were weeds — he could remember them from the distant past of long-ago Italian holidays, festooning the farm hedgerows on the approaches to Paestum. And they dummy1
had stirred his pale Protestant English gardener's soul with a curious mixture of admiration and envy and disapproval then, that mere weeds could be so spectacular: weeds were entitled to be both rare and beautiful, but had no right to be so outrageously colourful. But then, of course, they had been Italian weeds —
Richardson was half-Italian, that was what he must take account of. And wasn't it always said of Anglo-Italians that they could be the very devil?
He was getting close to the Villa Jovis now: he could even make out what might be the ruins among the trees on the skyline, surmounted by the statue of Tiberius which he had first seen from far below. And the landscape around him had changed: he had left the cosy holiday homes, with their gardens, behind him. Now there was only one path under the shoulder of the ridge, with secluded houses hidden among the trees on his right and a rock-strewn hillside on his left.
And no more blue flowers: the hillside was spotted with what looked like English buttercups among the boulders.
He stopped trying to make excuses for Peter Richardson.
Very devil or not, the man had made devilish complications out of what should have been a simple mission —made them with his smuggling enterprise, certainly; but, had he become dummy1
involved in more than that?
He stopped for a moment, as another fact registered: in all this long walk in the sun he hadn't passed anyone, either going up or going down, since he had left the lowest region of shops and hotels. But now there were two people coming towards him . . . and . . . there was no one at all behind him.
He took them in with another glance, and then admired the view again. They were just boy-and-girl, dressed in uni-sex sweat-shirt and very short shorts, the girl with a camera bouncing between her little no-bra breasts, the boy with an old haversack hanging on his shoulder, from which a bottle-top protruded.
As they passed him, he smiled at them. And got an answering smile from the girl, and a blank look from the boy.
But now there was someone else coming down. And still no one behind him, coming up —
This was the only way up: this was the way the old Emperor Tiberius must have come up to his great marble palace on the island where he'd spent so many years, from which he'd ruled his empire in those first Anno Domini years . . . and, for sure, every plunderer and invader afterwards had come the same way, to that look-out point up there — from Arabs and Normans and Spaniards, to Napoleon's Frenchmen and the sweating British redcoats who had also bid for possession —
to reduce his palace to rubble between them all.
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But now it was Peter Richardson's territory. And, by design and from experience, he appeared to have calculated exactly that there would be no throngs of tourists here at midday in late October, so that the sorting of possible goats from undoubted sheep would be thereby simplified.
After youth came age: this time it was an ancient black-garbed Caprese grandmother, with thick bowed legs and a wicker basket over her arm. And she didn't react to his smile, either: she didn't even look at him.
The last lap was among pine trees, which led him to the guardian's ticket-office, which appeared to be combined with a grubby little cafe.
Eventually a somnolent guardian materialized at the window.
'Uno?' He regarded Audley incuriously for a moment, then peered round into the emptiness as though to reassure himself that, if there was one idiot abroad when all sensible people were eating, drinking and resting, there weren't others trying to slip past behind him.
'Yes — si.' Audley was aware suddenly that his mouth was dry
— that, in fact, he was extremely thirsty. 'Uno —ah — una bottiglia di birra, per favore?'
The guardian sighed, and then wearily indicated the dirty white tables on the terrace of the cafe.
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At least it wasn't like Berlin, thought Audley. Neither Richardson nor anyone else awaited him on the terrace, it was reassuringly empty of both Mafiosi and Arabs as well as tourists, bona fide or otherwise. Which was just as well, because it was otherwise an altogether most suitable place for an asassination, with a sheer cliff offering convenient disposal of the body simultaneously: wasn't that how old Tiberius was said to have got rid of those who had offended him?
He sipped his beer gratefully, peering over the cliff down to the wrinkled blue sea far below. Somehow, and in spite of everything, he felt reassured himself, that he had calculated correctly. Or, rather, that Richardson had got it right, after all these years, in remembering that the two preferable extremes for any rendezvous were, respectively, crowds (where there might be safety in numbers, if nothing else!) or solitary places (where anyone who had no very good cause to be there stuck out like a sore thumb — as he himself did now), in spite of ...
He took another sip. And then found, to his chagrin, that two English sips almost equalled one Italian bottiglia, effectively.
But . . . actually, it was possible that Richardson had got it more than right, with any luck at all. Because, in any perfectly reasonable analysis of the events, it was like old Fred always said: that the elements of any situation were seldom neatly inter-locking, with everyone (on each side —
or, often, on more than two sides) pursuing related dummy1
objectives.
He drained the last drops of birra, and added his glass to the detritus of the table's previous occupants.
If it was like that now — if. . .it was at least reasonably likely that whoever had been gunning for Audley and (apparently) Kulik in Berlin, might not know about Peter Richardson's private problems (about which even the Italians themselves hadn't known until very recently) in Italy. In which happy case Richardson's present "unavailability" might have equally caught them — whoever? — by surprise ... as it had also caught the British and Italians . . . and the Mafia too — ?
But now he was making pictures. And even pictures of pictures, maybe?
But now it was time to find out, anyway!
It was like a labyrinth, just as Cuccaro had said —
But a labyrinth on different levels (not like a two-dimensional garden maze of evergreen hedges, in the English style: it was a labyrinthine maze of ruins in brick and stone on different levels . . . brick and stone from which the painted wall-plaster had long fallen away, and the marble had long been plundered and crushed for the lime-kilns of the ignorant plunderers).
Instinctively, he climbed up, away from the trees at the lower levels: he was here to be seen . . . either immediately, from some higher level, if Richardson was already here ... or (which was much more likely) to be f
ollowed from behind, if dummy1
Richardson had watched him pass from some safe vantage along the way, among the gardens and vineyards and walled houses.
What was it that they shared, from the old days? Or ... if they didn't share it (as he increasingly suspected; because, if they'd shared it. . . then why had he no slightest clue to what it might be —?)... no, if they didn't share it . . . what had Fred Clinton given Peter Richardson to do, about which David Audley had had no inkling . . . but which was a good and sufficient reason for David Audley and the man Kulik to die, in Berlin — ?
He reached the statue at last, coming out on the highest point — on to a wide stretch of gravel low-walled on its cliff-side and with white ornamental railings above the tiers of ruins on the island-side, with the whole of Capri beyond, and an ugly little chapel at his back. But it wasn't a statue of the Emperor Tiberius at all, presiding over the tremendous wreck of his palace, as it ought to have been by right and by reason. He'd been quite wrong in his assumption —
Wrong?
Even as he frowned up at the statue he was aware that he wasn't alone on the top of the Villa Jovis (and, if he'd thought more about it, he'd have placed Jupiter himself up there, if not Tiberius. But he would have been wrong there, too, dummy1
wouldn't he!)
Wrong!
So now there were two men away to his left, over by the railings, admiring their view of Capri from peak to peak.
But ... two men in suits? ("That won't do,” Mitchell had said.) But, anyway, neither of them was Peter Richardson —
He realized, as he stared at them, that one of them was returning his stare: a stocky, almost chunky, man. Whereas the other man was still admiring the view, quite unconcerned. But then he moved slightly, away from his chunky friend, no more than two or three steps, running his hand along the top rail lightly as he did so, yet still not turning full-face towards Audley.
But those steps were enough, even without full-face. Even the steps weren't necessary. What was necessary now was to decide what he himself was going to do. Except that decision predicated choice. And he really didn't have any choice now.
He walked towards the railings, listening to the sound of his shoes on the gravel, crunch by crunch, and not looking at the chunky man any more.
'Beautiful view.' This close his last hope evaporated. But it had never really been a hope, anyway. Because, with some people, recognition had to be face-to-face (and, anyway, he wasn't good with faces). But with others it was how they stood that was unforgettable, with each part of their weight always distributed ready for action, even when they were at dummy1
rest.
'Very beautiful.' The man turned to him.
The movement was fluidly casual. Zimin had been a soldier, and a good one — a trainer as well as an honours graduate of Spetsnaz. But he would also have made a damn good rugby player in the three-quarter line of the club lucky enough to recruit him: that was what Audley had thought, that one and only other time.
'We were admiring the view last time we met, I seem to remember, Colonel.' For the life of him, he couldn't smile this time. But then Zimin wasn't smiling now, either. 'New Zealand House — the sixteenth floor?' Zimin definitely wasn't smiling: he looked tired and drawn under his tan, as he had not done that evening, when they'd watched the lights of London go on together. 'What was it? The Wool Secretariat reception — ?' Indeed, it was perhaps time to react innocently to such lack of friendliness. 'It is Colonel Zimin, isn't it?'
'Yes, Dr Audley.' The man was almost frowning at him. 'It is Dr Audley, isn't it? The . . . celebrated Dr Audley?'
That voice was also memorable, with its curiously Germanic inflection. And, of course, he had discovered the reason for that in his subsequent check: Zimin was on record as having the gift of tongues, but German was his second language, just as Germany had been his Spetsnaz speciality. And he had learned his English as a German-speaker for that reason, no doubt. And probably his Italian and all the rest, too. That was dummy1
how Spetsnaz worked.
'Not very celebrated at the moment.' He felt a trickle of sweat run down his face near his ear, which could have been caused by the un-English October sun, but which was more likely the muck-sweat of fear. "The over-heated Dr Audley, Colonel.' He managed to produce some sort of smile at last, even in the knowledge that Zimin's chunky minder was now almost out of view behind him. 'I have very poor temperature control. Typical Anglo-Saxon — or North-West European, maybe . . . Although, of course, my other Norman ancestors did rather well in these parts, actually. So maybe it's just me.'
'Is that so?' On the surface, Zimin was humiliatingly cool-and-calm, just as the rest of him still seemed to hang loose.
But Audley sensed that inside he was dancing on his toes and wound up clockwork-tight: the whole joke — no joke! —
might be that he must be assuming "the celebrated Dr Audley" would be even-better-protected here, so far from home.
'Oh yes!' After that chance meeting at the New Zealand House reception Zimin would have done his homework too, if he hadn't done it before (and, indeed, if it had been such a chance meeting on his part, also). And that was what he himself must hold on to now — if only to stop this embarrassing sweat-of-fear which was running off him: that the Russian must be putting two-and-two together logically, when the real mathematics of the situation were such a hopeless mess. 'All these parts —from here to Sicily — were dummy1
once Norman territory, long ago. And they made a better job of running them than anyone has since.' Smile, Audley! 'And long after that, in Nelson's time or thereabouts . . . there was a British garrison here. Only, then the French threw us off.
But we got the better of them, eventually . . . with some help from the Russians, as well as the Germans.' This time —grin!
'We always end up on the winning side, Colonel.'
'I see.' The disadvantage of such crude time-buying was that it bought them both time. 'And is it history which brings you here now, Dr Audley? Or are you on holiday — ? Is Mrs Audley down there, in the town? And Miss Audley with her, perhaps?'
Audley watched the Russian take in the view again, from the ruins directly below them to far-off Capri-town, and even more distant Anacapri on its mountain beyond, before he finally came back to the ruins and Audley himself.
'No.' There was one bonus to all this, among all these hideous new uncertainties: Peter Richardson would not be joining this meeting, as it was at present constituted in full view of wherever he was down there below. With Zimin here — and, even more, with the chunky man in attendance — that was certain. So, with Peter out of mind, he could afford to strengthen his position by dismissing all the small talk. 'I'm working. And . . . although it's a pleasure to meet you again ...
I must admit that I'm also surprised to see you here, Colonel.'
Zimin studied him for a moment. Then he drew a deep breath. But, before he could speak, Chunky snapped dummy1
something in Russian, far too quickly and urgently for Audley to understand.
Zimin grunted, and then reached forward, first to touch Audley's arm, and then to hold it, pulling him gently away from the white railings — at least, pulling him gently, because he surrendered to the pressure. 'Dr Audley — if you please?'
Audley let himself be led, away round the squat chapel and into the shadow of what was very obviously not the statue of the Emperor Tiberius, Ruler of the World, but of the Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven.
"Thank you.' Zimin glanced past him for a second, and then at him. 'I am also surprised, Dr Audley — that you are here.'
They were now infinitely past small talk. 'You're surprised that I'm alive — is that it?'
Zimin drew a breath. 'I am ... relieved that you are alive.'
The rules hadn't changed. It was simply that there were new rules, apparently. 'Then . . . that makes us both relieved, Colonel Zimin. As well as surprised.'
Zimin took another look past him, presumably to make sure tha
t Chunky was still doing his job. 'You are here to meet with the man Peter Richardson, I take it?' Then he nodded, and it wasn't a question. 'He is a former colleague, of course
— yes?'
Berlin still could have been the Russians, in theory. And, by the same theory, Capri could still be Audley as well as dummy1
Richardson, just as Berlin ought to have been Audley and Kulik. Only that wasn't the way Capri felt, somehow.
'He is.' No use denying what they knew. But that was no reason for admitting more too readily yet, even though Zimin knew more than he did. 'And supposing I am here to meet him?'
'Then we have a common interest.'
Audley considered the cards he had in his hand unhappily, and almost with despair. His only trump was his belief that Richardson would be lying low, if not gone already. But that was the one card he couldn't safely play while Zimin had all the others.
'A common interest?' Suddenly he had another certainty, which lifted the huge weight of fear off his back almost magically as it also clarified Berlin. If the Russians had simply been concerned to kill Richardson — with or without the aid of another surrogate Arab assassin — then a man of Zimin's seniority would never be in attendance, even as an observer. Not even in the bad old days, let alone now (when appearances mattered), would that have been KGB/GRU
style so to compromise men for whom diplomatic status was routinely required across the world.
So he was safe!
'A common interest?' He realized that Zimin had been waiting for something better than that. And . . . and now that he was safe, he could see more clearly that there was only one dummy1
reason why Colonel Zimin should have come to Capri, dropping all his other important duties . . . just as "the celebrated Dr Audley" had been forced to do. 'You'd like a word with him too, Colonel?'
The happy thought expanded. Because, if the Russians knew better what was happening than he did (and they could hardly know worse), it was now at least possible that they didn't know everything, if they had sent Zimin to bring in Richardson.
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