October Men dda-4

by Anthony Price

  And now there was also the unseasonable humidity to contend with, more enervating than the dry Roman heat to which he was at least resigned. He had expected blue Campanian skies—the General's secretary had made the trip sound like a holiday jaunt—and instead he was enclosed by a haze which obscured the hills in the distance.

  But the heat and the ache and the humidity were all in the natural order of things, the old conspiracy of his feeble body and hostile environment against his unclouded mind. It was fear now that dominated him, both the sick stomach fear of physical danger and the chest-tightening panic of professional failure.

  The two hard-faced PS plainclothesmen behind him in the car did nothing to alleviate the physical fear. Sergeant Depretis had obviously been an officer of vast experience and proven ability to have made one of the special squads, but that had not prevented him choking in his own blood in the dust of Ostia; and even Villari's miraculous reflexes had not been fast enough to duck a bullet.

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  The very thought of Villari clouded his mind with confusion and guilt. The man had saved his life and taken his bullet, and the uncontrollable inner wish that the wound might prove mortal was therefore ungrateful and dishonourable as well as an act of treason and a mortal sin.

  But Villari's survival would bring humiliation, because everyone from the General downwards now believed that he, Boselli, had gunned down the assassin.

  "One shot—straight through the heart, too! I didn't know you could even use a gun, Pietro."

  "Sir—I—I—"

  "It's all right, Pietro, you don't have to tell me about it, not yet— Porro's already told me how it was. And I know it was bad, don't think I don't know. The first time is always bad.

  It was bad for me just the same—it was a Tommy in 1940, just outside Tobruk, and I was sick as a dog afterwards. But until then I didn't know whether I'd measure up. You can't tell until it happens—remember that, Pietro."

  Oh, God! It had been ordinary temptation first—the admiration in Porro's eyes and the General's voice. And he had suddenly become Pietro to the General after all those years of being Boselli— that was temptation doubled and trebled.

  But after the General's homily on the moment of measuring up the true explanation had stopped dead in his throat and dummy2

  then it was suddenly a thousand years too late for any sort of truth at all, and he was stuck with the lie like a hit-and-run driver who had run too far to turn back.

  If only Villari had not been hit! Or, more impossibly, if only what everyone thought was the reality, and he had measured up!

  But he had not measured up, and now God was punishing him in the most subtle way imaginable: in his daydreams he had always yearned for the chance of proving himself in the field, in charge of some important operation where no one else could steal the credit, but directly under the General's eye; and now he had his wish and with it his only chance of redeeming himself.

  It was exactly as Father Patrick had always maintained—

  when God punished He always built a second chance into the punishment, that was the nature of His Grace.

  So now he must carry out the General's instructions to the very last letter or be doubly damned as a liar and an incompetent. There would be no third chance.

  But then, when he had once more come round to that inescapable conclusion, the self-doubts began again—the doubt that he could deliver even half that the General wanted.

  "You heard the tape of what Clinton said—it was very convincing —that note of surprise was a small touch of genius. I think there is no liar in the world like an English dummy2

  gentleman, Pietro, no liar in the whole world. They are absolute masters of the half-truth. But I must know the whole truth. . . ."

  No liars in the whole world—Boselli could believe that because he had been convinced that the news of the Ostian blood bath had genuinely surprised Clinton.

  But the General was right, of course: to send such a man as Audley to interview Eugenio Narva about his investment in the oil discoveries in the North Sea made no sense at all. It was a technologist's assignment, and a routine one at that.

  Nor was it likely to be of great interest to the Russians, the more so because it related to the past.

  And above all it ought not to be a killing matter.

  But at that point the second and more terrifying requirement obtruded.

  "And I want Ruelle, Pietro. One way or another, alive or dead—I want him."

  A small sound registered in the world outside Boselli's private turmoil, the distant sound of aircraft engines. He raised his hand to lift the dark glasses which had slipped down his nose, remembering guiltily as he did so to whom they belonged. They were beautiful, expensive glasses, self-adjusting to the degree of sunlight: he had always wanted dummy2

  such glasses, and it had seemed a crime to leave them lying where they had fallen.

  He sighed. If Villari lived he would have to give them back too.

  There was nothing as yet to see, only the increasing sound in the northwest to be heard. But it would not be long now before the Englishman arrived.

  Captain Peter John Richardson.

  Nothing could be more English than that, except that Captain Peter John Richardson was no more and no less English than George Ruelle—Captain Peter John Richardson was another bastard half Italian Englishman.

  No, that was inaccurate: he was no bastard of a passing foreign soldier and an ignorant peasant girl, the dossier was clear on that point: the girl had been of good family and the wedding in Amalfi Cathedral was a matter of undoubted record.

  Unfortunately those were almost the only undoubted things in the dossier. The man had trained as a soldier, had been seconded to army intelligence in Cyprus and had then been sent on a language course at a provincial English university.

  Conjecturally, at some stage in that process he had been diverted into Sir Frederick Clinton's department—it could have been even before he had gone to the university or during his studies (the famous guerrilla leader Lawrence had spied on the Turks while still a student, Boselli recalled with dummy2

  a mixture of outrage and admiration. No doubt it was neither the first nor the last time the English had played that game).

  What was certain was that he had never returned to the Army, but as the facts ran and reran through Boselli's memory he could reach no conclusion beyond that he had reached on first encountering them: the man was young, but he would be clever and tricky—and doubly tricky because that mixture of English and Italian blood was traditionally a bad one, prone to bring out the worst of each.

  That was true of George Ruelle, certainly; it remained to be seen whether it was true of Captain Peter John Richardson.

  When it came at last, it came quickly, out of the haze and straight down on to the runway, a compact little executive jet of RAF Air Support Command.

  Once down it swung quickly to the right, directly towards the group by the perimeter fence, set its passenger down accurately and quickly no more than seventy-five metres away, and then swung back again on its direct path towards the main buildings.

  The first warning was the man's grace. Boselli was always a little suspicious of too much ease of movement, too much physical confidence. That had been what Villari had had, and this man had it too: he gave the pilot a wave and then, as the aircraft left him, took one slow look around him before he started towards Boselli, a small leather travelling bag in one dummy2

  hand and his jacket, slung negligently over his shoulder, in the other. He looked as if he owned everything he could see.

  A small pain hammered just above Boselli's left eyebrow, a sickening migrainelike pulse. Already he did not like the half-Englishman.

  "Signor Boselli?" The toothpaste-white teeth lit up the good-looking brown face, a totally Mediterranean face without a single Anglo-Saxon feature.

  "Captain Richardson?"

  "Not captain any more." The smile remained in position as Richardson
stared into Boselli's dark glasses. He breathed in the heat appreciatively. "Thank God for a little warmth at last. It was raining when we took ofi."

  Boselli ignored the pleasantry. "Your identification, if you please."

  "Of course." Richardson handed over a plain black little folder. "The mug shot's not a bad likeness, don't you think?"

  The man's Italian was as faultless as his face, there was even an irritatingly added perfection in the hint of Neapolitan in it. He was smiling in the photograph, too.

  "A formality," said Boselli coldly, handing back the folder.

  "Of course." Richardson nodded. "And yours?"

  The request caught Boselli by surprise; he had never, in his entire career, been asked for his official card by anyone other than the guards on the department, and that only in the dim past. But although the half-Englishman's intention of putting dummy2

  him in his place was perfectly clear he could see no way of refusing it without a direct confrontation, and the insolence beneath the smile was too well-hidden for that.

  He fumbled for it in his wallet, but unfortunately it had long settled in the innermost fold and in extracting it he dislodged a dog-eared collection of small private objects, including the appalling snapshot of his wife and mother-in-law taken during the previous summer's martyrdom in Viterbo.

  The snap fluttered down between them and Richardson bent effortlessly and gathered it up, offering it back as though in exchange for the card while Boselli hastily gathered up the rest.

  "A formality also," said the half-Englishman. "Shall we go, then?"

  Boselli followed him to the car seething with the knowledge that he had allowed himself to be overawed, even though it was the English who were in the weaker position. Yet he knew also that it was not the English who mattered, but the General. If he could only obtain results by seeming to abase himself to this nonchalant pig, then that was how the game must be played. At least it was a role he knew how to fill to the last humiliating syllable. Revenge could come later.

  Nevertheless it would be a mistake to surrender too tamely, and he must take the initiative to start with.

  "This is a serious business, Captain Richardson," he began heavily.

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  "You're telling me!"

  "I am telling you, Captain Richardson. One of our agents has been killed and another lies gravely wounded."

  Richardson chewed on that for a moment before replying.

  "I wasn't aware that we were responsible for any of that, signore."

  "It occurred as a direct consequence of the actions of one of your operatives."

  "An indirect consequence. That would be a fairer description."

  "Direct or indirect—the incident occurred and General Montuori is extremely angry about it."

  "So is Sir Frederick Clinton."

  "But General Montuori did not initiate this affair. He wishes to remind you further that Italy and England are treaty allies and that such actions as this could have grave repercussions within NATO."

  That sounded good, Boselli decided happily, because it sounded official. It was beside the point that it was exactly the opposite of what the General had said: But we don't want any political trouble with the English. We're going to need them to keep that wild man Mintoff in line if he gets to power in Malta.

  "In fact he expects the very fullest co-operation now, Captain Richardson."

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  "Not 'captain', if you don't mind, signore," said Richardson.

  At last he was no longer smiling.

  "Signor Richardson." Boselli smiled. He might not have to surrender after all. "The fullest co-operation."

  "By that I take it you mean a two-way exchange of information?"

  "We have no information to exchange. We did not initiate this affair, as I have already pointed out."

  "I see." Richardson nodded, regarding Boselli reflectively.

  Then he turned away to the left as the car came out of a cutting through the dark-grey volcanic rock. "Monte Vesuvio's hiding himself today, I see. But he's still there all right. He's still there."

  Boselli frowned at him, nonplussed.

  "You know my family—my mother's family—came from these parts?" said Richardson conversationally.

  Boselli nodded as Richardson turned to him.

  "Of course you would. A big family it was, but not so big now.

  Too many of the men developed the bad habit of getting themselves killed. But we once had vineyards from here to Ravello—red and white Vesuvio, and Ischia and Avellino.

  Now only the Ravello vineyards are left, I think. And a pottery at Salerno. . . . And one of my second cousins has a machine-tool works at Torre Annunziata on the right there somewhere. It was his father who used to say that Monte Vesuvio sometimes hid himself, but he was always there." He dummy2

  turned back towards the mist-shrouded volcano. "Have you picked up David Audley, then?"

  Boselli thought quickly, but could find no objection to answering.

  "Yes."

  Richardson nodded. "Where did you pick him up?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I'd be interested to know. At one of the autostrada toll stations, I'd guess—near Naples, maybe?"

  "Salerno."

  "Salerno! He must have been pushing it, but that figures. ...

  So in effect we gave him to you."

  "There was a general call out for him, Captain Richardson."

  "Signor. But we told you—Sir Frederick told your boss—

  where he was heading, so we gave him to you. That's what I call full cooperation. And you know who he was going to see?"

  Boselli nodded cautiously. He had the feeling that the haze was about to lift from Monte Vesuvio—and that there might be smoke coming from the crater.

  "Narva. Signor Eugenio Narva. Pillar of the Establishment and the Christian Democrats and the Church. Founder and master of Narva Enterprises from the Persian Gulf to Bonnie Aberdeen. Chief shareholder in Xenophon Oil and Singer and Bailey and Enfield Alloys and other companies too dummy2

  numerous to mention, plus a finger in North Sea offshore block allocations 311/26, 312/6, 315/4. A very busy fellow, Signor Narva is—I'm sure you've heard of him, Signor Boselli."

  Richardson grinned again at Boselli. "You know what happens to Romans who come South, signore—they're no good to the Calabrians because the Neapolitans have taken all their money from them as they pass through. That's why Calabria is so poor. But I'm only half from these parts, so I'll be nice to you—I'll tell you why we are so interested in Narva.

  "You see, I'm afraid your General has gone off at halfcock—

  we didn't initiate this affair, as you put it. We were only very gently enquiring—and Dr. Audley was doing nothing more than that—about a bit of industrial espionage in which Signor Narva indulged a few years ago. And a very nasty bit of industrial espionage, too—you could even drop the

  'industrial' part of it if you liked. The sort of thing that'd raise unpleasant questions in our Parliament."

  Boselli experienced a queasy feeling below the belt.

  "The sort of thing—your boss was quite right there—the sort of thing that could have grave repercussions, not just in NATO but in the Common Market negotiations. In fact you're dead lucky that my boss is a Common Market man, otherwise our anti-marketeers would be having a field day now."

  We don't want any political trouble with the English: the sick feeling worsened. Between them Narva and the General dummy2

  represented an appalling range of political and professional problems, never mind Ruelle and these English, who between them personified danger.

  "So just don't go on thinking you can call all the shots just because you've got Dr. Audley," Richardson went on coolly.

  "I want to see him—and quickly."

  Boselli nodded humbly. "We are on our way to see him now, signore."

  "Good. And I hope you haven't roughed him up, either."

  Boselli tried
to look shocked.

  "It was just a thought." Richardson gave a conspiratorial nod towards the two men in the front of the car. "Some of your Pubblica Sicurezza special squads can be a bit heavy-handed, especially when they want to show off in front of the Carabinieri."

  "I assure you there has been nothing like that. We have merely detained him."

  "I'm glad to hear it. Because we're going to need him, Signor Boselli—you and me both, since we're about to give each other the fullest co-operation, that is."

  No smile this time, Boselli noted. Perhaps the half-Englishman also required a success for his record.

  "You can rely on me, signore." Perversely, he was not wholly forging the sincerity in his voice. His brief, false moment of power had been heady, but followed by self-doubts even before Richardson had bitten back as he realised that he still dummy2

  didn't know what course of action to follow next. But clearly the half-Englishman knew what to do, and by hanging to his coattails he, Boselli, might yet salvage something, taking the credit for success and at least sharing the blame for failure.

  And already he had learnt something to tell the General: the English were angry about Narva's interference in their North Sea and desperately worried that it should not become an issue of their domestic politics. In such circumstances even the General would wish to move cautiously.

  "You can rely on me," he repeated, "Signor Richardson."

  "Fine. And Peter is the name—I'm Pietro in these parts."

  "I too am Pietro."

  "Well I'd better stick to Peter, then. And the first thing you can do for me, Pietro, is tell me about this shooting of yours.

  What the hell happened?"

  "It was in Ostia, signore—Peter. Ostia Antica."

  "The old ruins? What was David Audley doing there?"

  "We hoped you could tell us." Boselli shrugged. "Could he have been meeting someone?"

  "It's possible. But who started the shooting?"

  "We followed him, but—we were ambushed. One of our men was killed, another wounded, as I have told you. And one of theirs."