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.
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"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.
Audley rose slowly, brushing the pine needles from his trousers before coming towards them.
"Good day, General—Signor Boselli," Audley gave the General a little bow and Boselli a curious glance as though he was looking at him for the first time. "Are we all set, then?"
"Everything is as you wished it to be, Dr. Audley," said the General. "It's a typical Ruelle bolt-hole, with an escape route at the rear —he always boasted that his kennels had back doors to them. But we have the whole place covered."
"And the presence of your men in this area is accounted for, just in case?"
The General looked at Boselli.
"Yes, professore. There was an announcement on radio and dummy2
television last night and again today—there is supposed to have been a breakout from prison at Naples. We have had roadblocks set up over half the province to make it look authentic."
"Excellent. And of course the roadblocks will have discouraged them from leaving the farm, eh?"
That bonus hadn't occurred to Boselli, but he nodded quickly and knowingly in agreement. He had worked hard enough on this operation to justify taking all the credit that was going spare. Besides, it was for the best that the Englishmen should have their confidence built up: they were taking all the risks, after all.
"Very well." Audley turned to the General. "But there is just one small change in plan. I'm not going to take Richardson with me. I've decided against it."
Richardson's brow creased with surprise. "What do you mean? We agreed—"
"—We didn't agree anything, so don't start arguing, Peter."
"Arguing? Man—I'm here to watch out for you!"
"Too late for that. And once we're up there, there isn't anything you can do to stop things going wrong—if I can't swing it."
"Oh, come off it! The Bastard's a real mean guy, David—"
Audley shook his head obstinately. "I know the score. You're not coming, Peter. I don't need you—and besides, it's better that one of us remain here."
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Richardson turned hotly to the General, though why he was so keen to reject the chance of safety with honour quite escaped Boselli. It could only be boneheaded self-esteem: the fellow was as bad as Armando Villari.
"General—" Richardson appealed, "—you tell him!"
"No, Captain," replied the General, with a sudden flash of his old military decisiveness. "Dr. Audley is right and you are wrong. I agree with him."
"My job—"
"—Your job, Captain, is to obey orders. If not Dr. Audley's, then mine," snapped the General. "Now, Dr. Audley—do you intend to go alone?"
The grove of trees was quite cool, really. And for once even the cicadas seemed to have given up.
"No. I need someone to deliver your bargain ... to give substance to it, anyway."
"Again, I agree," the General nodded. "Then I shall go with you. I'd like to have a last look at the Bastard—I didn't get a good look last time."
"No, General—"
A fearful premonition stirred within Boselli.
"—that would be bad tactics. It might be like a red rag to a bull, and we don't want this bull angered—"
No General! Not you General—Boselli felt the stillness ringing inside his head, making his senses swim. It was like dummy2
the moment in Ostia all over again—like the moment when the other car turned towards you and there was no time to turn the wheel and nowhere to go. The moment when the examiner said I'm sorry, but— The moment of total realisation and of no escape.
"—and your name will be enough, at the right time. I'd rather take Signor Boselli, if you can spare him—"
XVII
HE COULDN'T REMEMBER anything they had said, he could only see the dusty track stretching up the hillside towards the farm. "Is there anything else you'd like to know before we start?"
Boselli felt the sweat beneath his palms on the steering wheel. He had the feeling that this was at least the second time of asking that question. But there was nothing else he needed to know, because he knew it all.
Maybe the big Englishman was doing what he thought was best and most reasonable in cold blood. And maybe he was right at that! But he, Boselli, the Boselli of flesh and blood, was here because the General liked to hedge his bets; because the General thought maybe the Englishman couldn't pull it off, and if he didn't then it would be better to lose the little clerk Boselli than the son of one of his old flames, the half-Englishman—
If you can spare him—
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"I beg your pardon, signore—professore?"
"Is there anything you're doubtful about?"
"Doubtful?"
Mother of God, but that was an understatement!
Audley regarded him keenly. "You didn't seem very interested in what I was saying back there."
Not very interested? Well, if that was how he had appeared Boselli supposed he ought to be grateful that he had concealed his absolute dismay so well. It had certainly not been lack of interest, but rather the resignation of the bullock in the slaughterhouse yard.
"I was listening." That was true enough; he could even remember the Englishman's words exactly. The trouble was that they were now just a string of remembered sounds without the life breath of meaning. "You are going to tell the truth."
"Pretty much, yes. The only thing I'm not going to tell him is that it's the KGB itself we've consulted. He mustn't even suspect that, or we're done for."
"I understand."
That was not quite true, either, since Audley had omitted to say what this miraculous truth of his was, or how it was going to change George Ruelle's plans. But the General hadn't seemed unduly curious about it, and neither was Boselli now.
He was cast as an onlooker again, and the bullock's lethargy dummy2
was overpowering.
Anyway, the truth was there, up in the farmhouse, waiting for him. And so was Ruelle. And he could escape neither of them.
Except for the bumping of the car on the potholes and summer-hardened ruts, they didn't seem to be moving: it was the farm that was coming towards them, first on one side and then on the other, and finally on the last straight hundred metres dead ahead. He couldn't take his eyes off it.
"You're going too fast," murmured Audley. "Go slowly—we must do everything slowl
y now."
The tyres slithered as Boselli braked too hard. He hadn't been aware of his speed, and the Englishman was absolutely right: whatever fear he felt at coming to this place would be matched by the alarm their arrival must cause here. Fear made men trigger happy, and these pigs had already shown themselves to be that.
The farm resolved itself into a tumbledown collection of buildings almost encircling them, with two other cars tucked in the shadow of a crumbling barn—a little Fiat 600, old and battered, and a larger pale green vehicle of a make Boselli didn't recognise.
"Stop here."
Obediently Boselli halted in the middle of the yard.
"Get out slowly—and for God's sake keep your hands in view.
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They'll be expecting something from you, if anyone."
Boselli couldn't understand what the Englishman was driving at, but there was no time to ask for an explanation.
He knew only that his hands seemed to have become large and clumsy, and he didn't know where to put them for safety.
In the end, as he came round the front of the car, he found that he was holding them loosely in front of his chest, as he did at home when he was looking for a towel to dry them.
"Stop!"
The voice was as loud as a pistol shot behind him.
"Don't move—and don't turn round."
The second part of the command was superfluous: there was nothing in the world which would have moved Boselli one hair's-breadth from where he was standing, and for a moment he was afraid his heart was obeying also.
"Raise your arms—higher—now walk towards the wall ahead
— slowly—"
The wall? Up against the wall?
"You—move!"
Boselli's legs managed an unwilling shuffle.
"Stop! Now lean forward on your fingertips."
Boselli knew what to do: he had seen it on the films and in photographs—the helpless prisoners lined up without dignity against a thousand walls already pitted at man-killing height.
Through the roughness of the walls he was joining this dummy2
multitude of the half-dead.
A heavy boot struck the inside of his right foot without warning, kicking it farther away from the other. The sudden extra weight on his other leg made his left knee buckle, so that for a moment he thought he would lose his balance.
"Stand still!"
Boselli froze while a rough hand explored his body, one side at a time, from ankle to crotch and then from waist to armpit.
"All right—you can stand up." The voice sounded farther away, as though its owner had decided that they were still dangerous even though unarmed. "Turn round."
Boselli turned slowly. It was not Ruelle, certainly, though the age was about right, and not the confederate from England either, the man Korbel. The stained working clothes and the three-day beard suggested one of the Prezzolini brothers, the ex—executioners. And so did the machine-pistol in his hands: where the man was dirty and unkempt, the gun was spotless.
"I want to talk to Ruelle," said Audley abruptly.
"What about?"
"About my business—and his."
"How did you know where to come?"
"You know who I am, then?"
"I said—how did you know where to come?"
"And I said I'll talk to Ruelle."
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The man stared belligerently at Audley, then gestured with the gun towards the house.
"Inside."
It was something to have survived the first encounter, but the doorway of the farmhouse, with shuttered windows on each side, didn't look inviting: it was like the opening of a black pit.
As he passed under the low lintel—the Englishman ahead of him had hunched his head to negotiate it—the smell of savoury cooking was the first and strongest sensation to register, rather than any impression of the room's contents.
And then there was no time to take in anything apart from sordid litter on the table just ahead of him, a blackened saucepan, bottles and a half-eaten loaf.
"Ruelle—" Audley snapped.
They were to the right of the table, no mistaking this time, even in the slowly clearing half-light—no mistaking even though he had never seen these men in the flesh.
"How did you get here?" Ruelle echoed the Prezzolini brother's question, but with much greater menace even though he carried no gun to back it up.
"The Police brought me."
"The Police!"
It was the man alongside Ruelle who spoke, in a thick foreign accent which Boselli couldn't place until he recalled that it had been Southern Russia from which Korbel had set out dummy2
thirty years before.
Ruelle was silent for a moment, then he reached inside his coat and drew out a large automatic pistol from his waistband. "Guido— cover the front. I'll call you when I'm ready. I'll deal with these."
The light from the doorway was cut off for an instant as Guido ducked outside without a word; the old habit of obedience hadn't lapsed with time. But it was Ruelle's last phrase which petrified Boselli.
Audley ostentatiously looked at his watch. "Peter Korbel—
you know me. And you know I'm not a fool—"
"You brought the Police," Ruelle cut in fiercely. "I warned you
—"
"No!" Audley bit back just as fiercely. "I said the Police brought me. There's a difference."
"Not to me."
"You idiot—they've been on to you from the start. They saw you at the airport. You brought the Police to me!" Audley turned back to Korbel, reaching slowly across his chest and taking the white handkerchief from his outside breast pocket.
"There's a little window on the north side of this house, a narrow one just above ground level. Hang this out of it."
Korbel stared at him, his broad, creased face still frozen with the shocked imprint of the word "police" on it.
"Why?"
"Because if you don't they'll be swarming all over you in—"
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Audley looked at his wristwatch again "—just under six minutes."
"By which time you will be very dead."
"I will have you to keep me company soon enough."
Ruelle's lips twisted. "Signore—the Fascists couldn't catch me and the Nazis couldn't catch me either. And they knew the score. Your fucking baby cops are still wet behind the ears. If they knew the way I operate they'd be here already—"
"You mean your kennel has a back door to it?"
Ruelle gaped. "Eh?"
"Yes, there's an old acquaintance of yours out there, Ruelle,"
said Audley conversationally. "His name's Raffaele Montuori.
He was a major when you last met him, but he's come a long way since then. He's a general now."
"George—" Korbel hissed, "—Montuori is—"
"—I know what he is—shut up!"
"And he hasn't forgotten you," continued Audley. "In fact he wants you so badly his balls ache. And he's just hoping you'll put a bullet in me so he can come and take you—so badly he's had this place sewn up tight for the last fifteen hours just in case you made a run for it."
"George—"
"Maybe you heard on the radio about the Naples jailbreak,"
said Audley remorselessly, shaking his head slowly. "But of course that was just for your benefit, so he could block this dummy2
place off properly . . . just in case you still might know what the real score is."
In the moment of silence which followed, Boselli heard the distant sound of an engine. He looked down quickly at his watch: the helicopter was one minute early.
Audley had heard too. He leaned forward across the table.
"I'm the only thing that stands between you and Montuori, Ruelle—you talk with me or you take your chance with him.
He doesn't want to talk."
The engine was louder now.
"And you've got ninety seconds to start listening to me."
The room darkened again as Guido Prezzolini appeared in the doorway. "There's a plane coming up the valley from the west—this way, chief!"
"Not a plane," said Audley. "A helicopter. The plane has already been over. The first pass will be just to pinpoint the target. There are armoured personnel carriers on the road, rocket launchers. For all I know he's got Alpini on the mountain behind you. You're getting the V.I.P. treatment today."
Korbel stretched across the table and snatched the handkerchief from Audley's hand. Then, as the sound of the engine increased to the point where Boselli could identify the distinctive racket of the rotor, he disappeared quickly through a doorway just behind him. There was a thumping noise and then a tinkle of broken glass: whatever the state of dummy2
Ruelle's nerves, his partner was ready to talk.
The roar of the helicopter reached a crescendo as the machine clattered low over the farmhouse, and then diminished quickly as it passed over the shoulder of the mountain beyond. Korbel slipped back quickly into the room again.
"Go back and watch, Guido," ordered Ruelle. "Let me know the moment anyone starts up the track."
This time Prezzolini's reaction was not so quick. He looked at Ruelle half mutinously before grunting and slouching back into the yard.
"What are you offering?" said Korbel.
"First—I want to see my wife."
"She's not been hurt."
"Then she can tell me that herself."
Korbel nodded. "Very well."
Audley and Ruelle stared at each other silently for half a minute after Korbel had ducked back through the doorway again.
At length Ruelle spoke. "How did they get on to this place?"
Audley shrugged. "They haven't told me. Maybe they kept tabs on your friend with the gun. They're not so wet behind the ears as you think, anyway—not with Montuori behind them. And they had you spotted, as I've said."
Ruelle's eyes shifted to Boselli. "Who's he?"
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Boselli's heart thumped. Those were butcher's eyes appraising a bullock, and he hoped desperately that Audley wasn't going to let slip that the bullock belonged to Rafiaele Montuori.
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