by Jeremy Duns
And there was the small matter of the tail: the man in the dark green suit and scuffed brown brogues sitting at one of the other tables, reading Le Monde a little too intently as he devoured a cheese and ham sandwich. The suit was a size too small for his paunch, which along with its colour gave him a striking resemblance to Toad of Toad Hall. It was the driver of the Anglia that had followed us to Harley Street. I hadn’t seen him on the way here, but he’d evidently managed to follow us.
His presence was precisely why bodyguards tended to be a waste of time in this business. I had no doubt that Barnes was a tough nut, and useful to have on one’s side in a fight, but he was pure muscle, and hadn’t the first idea about surveillance. He wasn’t acting, either, trying to make me think he wasn’t switched on or some game of that sort; I’d watched him for several minutes now, and he hadn’t looked up from his book once. It just wasn’t in his training. He wouldn’t know a Russian spy if his life depended on it.
And the man was unquestionably Russian, despite the paper he was pretending to read. It wasn’t just the cut of his suit; even his face was unmistakably Russian: a pasty complexion from too much potato in the diet, blue-grey pupils glinting through narrow eyelids, a pugilist’s nose and the mouth of a coelacanth. Straight out of Central Casting. He was from one of the northern republics, I thought, Lithuania or Byelorussia. Was he going to try to kill me here, in the airport? He hadn’t tried to do anything on the road, but perhaps he had been waiting for the chance.
I pushed back my chair and told Barnes I was going to the lavatory.
He made to stand up and I stared him down. ‘Right you are, sir,’ he nodded. He went back to Churchill.
I followed the signs to the Gents’ until I was out of sight of Barnes, then headed for the WH Smith stall and took up position behind a stand of paperback thrillers. It was a perfect spot: I could see the whole concourse, so would have ample warning of his approach, and there were two entrances, so I could make my escape whichever way I chose, depending on the direction he came from. I wondered what he would be thinking now. He could either sit it out and hope I would be back shortly, or come and investigate immediately in the fear that I had spotted him and done a runner.
It took him less than a minute. He ambled over, pretending he was looking for a bin to dispose of the wrapper of his sandwich. I slipped out the other exit to the gallery of duty-free shops, stepping into the aisles of alcohol, tobacco and perfume laid out to tempt. I glanced into a display of Swiss wristwatches to see if I could catch sight of Toadski in the reflection. He was at the same thriller stand at Smith’s I’d just vacated, apparently engrossed in the selection.
I turned and walked into another shop, selling overpriced knitwear. Toadski suddenly lost interest in Margery Allingham and came bumbling out into the gangway. He looked around frantically, trying to see where I had got to, and then he caught sight of me and our eyes met. He looked down, embarrassed, then tried to mask it by glancing at his watch and feigning distress that he was late for his flight. An announcement was being made, and he made a show of listening to it. He started to scurry away, but I leapt in front of him and grabbed him by the arm. A few yards further along there was a door marked STAFF. It was slightly ajar, and I caught a glimpse of a mop handle. I looked around, and saw that the cleaner was still circling the restaurants. I shoved Toadski inside and stepped in after him. There was an overpowering smell of bleach. I grabbed him by the throat and quickly searched his pockets. He was unarmed.
‘What do you want?’ I said. ‘And make it quick.’
He gulped, his Adam’s apple throbbing wildly. I loosened my grip a little.
‘“The chairs… are being brought in… from the garden.”’ His accent wasn’t bad, sort of stockbroker London. But he still looked like he’d just stepped out of the Minsk Players.
‘Why am I a target?’ I snapped at him, but he merely looked at me with glazed eyes and repeated the Auden line.
I removed my hand. He didn’t know anything. He was a messenger, that was all: he had given me the arranged code-phrase for ‘Danger: keep a low profile until further contacted.’
‘Tell Sasha to screw himself,’ I said. The shot had missed me by less than an inch and he thought he could reel me back in by sending this buffoon to tell me I was in danger? What the hell did he take me for? I was going to need a little more information before I turned up for a meet and risked having my head shot off by the next sniper hired for the job.
I pushed Toadski back out of the door, smiled at the Pakistani cleaner as he came rumbling towards us, and smoothed myself down.
*
Barnes was waiting for me outside the lavatories. ‘There you are, sir,’ he said. ‘I was getting worried. Our flight has just been announced.’
‘Thought I’d have a look at the duty-free liquor,’ I said as calmly as I could. My heart was still thumping from the fury I’d released. ‘The prices didn’t seem anything special, though.’
Barnes smiled and we set off for the departure gate.
V
Thursday, 1 May 1969, Rome, Italy
My heart rate didn’t have much of a chance to recover once we were on the plane: we sat for over an hour while the ground crew worked on a frequently referenced but unspecified technicality. We eventually touched down in Fiumicino at just after seven. The air was still warm on the skin as we trooped across to the terminal building, and despite the circumstances I had to admit that there was something pleasing about being back in Italy. Perhaps it had been the double Scotch I’d had once the plane had finally taken off.
Fantasy turned to reality again the moment we stepped inside: the queues snaked around the entire Customs area.
‘Doesn’t look too good, sir,’ said Barnes unnecessarily, as a trio of small boys in sailor suits ran straight towards us, shooting each other with toy pistols. We sidestepped them and walked towards the queue that looked the shortest, but as we were taking up position behind an extremely noisy German family, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned and was greeted by a beautiful young woman: a late-period Modigliani in a green blouse and a maxi skirt. She had a badge identifying her as an employee of the Italian airport authority.
‘Signor Dark?’
I nodded, and gestured at Barnes to hand her our passports, which he did. She inspected them for a few moments, then handed them back.
‘Da questa parte, prego,’ she said.
It had slipped my mind that there were compensations to travelling under diplomatic cover, and that this was one of them: you didn’t have to waste time going through the usual checks. We followed her over to a bench, where our bags were already waiting. She briskly chalked them, before giving us each a chit to sign and handing them over.
‘Enjoy your stay in Italy,’ she said, flashing perfect white teeth, and then her hips were swinging away from us and she was gone.
We walked through to the main concourse and were immediately accosted again, this time by a tall, fair-haired man in a dark blue suit: Charles Severn. He was a little broader round the belly, but otherwise looked much the same as I remembered: a good tan, slightly ruddy, a firm jaw and an open, earnest look about him. The only wrong note was his eyes, which somehow didn’t fit the rest of his face. One expected them to be blue, but instead they were a peculiar grey, like the colour of gunmetal.
‘Buongiorno, Paul,’ he said, taking a grip of my hand. ‘Long time no see.’ He gestured that we head towards the exit. ‘We should send a letter to The Trusty Servant,’ he said. ‘“Two Wykehamists held a hot in Rome airport…”’
I groaned inwardly. We had been in the same house at Winchester; he was a few years below me. He had joined the Service after the war, and our paths had crossed a few times over the years, in Istanbul, in Paris, briefly in London. I never much enjoyed encountering him. He was bright and efficient, and generally rather charming, but he could also be very brash. I hated our shared past: the fact that he had stood next to me at Preces
, knew the nicknames I had been given and so on. The Trusty Servant was the school paper, and it often featured inane letters from old boys re-enacting ‘hots’, the school game’s surreal brand of scrum, in exotic and therefore supposedly hilarious locations. My pleasure at having made it through Customs so smoothly suddenly evaporated.
We walked out to the thick warmth of the street, where a throng of recent arrivals were negotiating fares with taxi drivers to take them into the city.
‘You must be Reginald!’ Severn shouted across at Barnes, the first time I’d heard anyone use Barnes’ first name. ‘You were in Nairobi, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir!’ he shouted back. ‘Among other places.’
‘Capital. Wonderful to have you here. I’m afraid my car’s a two-seater so there’s not room for all of us – would you mind too much catching a taxi to the embassy and we’ll meet you there?’
Barnes gave me a questioning glance, and I nodded my assent to the scheme. He asked Severn for the embassy’s address, repeated it back to him, then took my bag from me and headed into the fray of the taxi queue without another word.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Severn, as we crossed the street, now Barnes-less. ‘No pool cars were available. How was the flight? Shame about the delay, but you know what they say: Bastards Eventually Arrive.’ I forced a smile at the stale joke. ‘How are you feeling, by the way? I heard you came down with some awful bug in Nigeria.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Got the all-clear just a few hours ago, in fact.’
‘Quite a turn-up, all that, wasn’t it? I heard they even suspected you of being the double at one point – what on earth were they thinking?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was unfortunate.’
‘Desperately sad news about the Templetons. Although the last time I saw Colin he gave me a bollocking for daring to talk to Vanessa!’
I gave a tight smile: it wasn’t quite how I remembered the incident.
‘And everyone’s very sorry about John, of course,’ he said.
I doubted many out here had known Farraday, and if they had they probably wouldn’t have liked him much. But I noted that Severn’s diplomatic skills appeared to have improved over the years.
His car was parked precariously on a verge, although calling it a car seemed something of a disservice: I’d never seen anything like it. It was an Alfa Romeo, almost absurdly low slung and streamlined to perfection. The front window merged seamlessly into the roof, giving it the appearance of a prototype spacecraft. Instead of the traditional rosso corsa, the bodywork was British racing green.
‘New toy?’ I asked.
‘Just delivered,’ he smiled, unlocking an extraordinary pair of doors that swept up vertically, meeting in the middle like the wings of an enormous metal butterfly. ‘Isn’t it a beauty? It’s a “33 Stradale” – only a dozen or so have been built. It’s nearly identical to the racing version: top speed 175 miles per hour.’ He climbed in and patted the white leather. ‘Custom-built coachwork.’ He opened a compartment and pulled on a pair of matching kidskin gloves.
I made some appreciative noises, and remarked that he seemed to be doing well for himself.
‘Look who’s talking,’ he laughed. ‘Deputy Chief at forty-five!’
I manoeuvred myself into the front passenger seat.
‘Forty-four,’ I said.
For a moment I wondered whether he was on the take in some way, but immediately dismissed it: he was from an old banking family, and he’d always been a flashy bugger, even at school. As he brought us out onto the street, he veered out behind a rusty-looking Fiat, then brought the wheel round and squeezed through the gap to overtake it moments before a lorry came hurtling the other way. It was a terrific piece of driving but he hardly seemed to notice, and even accelerated. I looked on in admiration. Although the coachwork and exterior of the car were beautiful, there were few creature comforts: no radio, no carpet on the floor, no luggage space. It was a pure, brutal speed machine, and it certainly replicated the feeling of being in a race car. It took me back to Father’s sorties round Brooklands. I’d done a bit of racing myself in my teens, but had never really developed the taste for it: there didn’t seem to be enough of a purpose.
As we approached the centre of the city, Severn finally switched down a gear and I asked him for a situation report, which he gave as fast and as fluently as he drove.
‘There have been no further attacks,’ he said, ‘but the police took a call on Monday from someone claiming there was a bomb in the Finance Ministry – nothing was found, though. In Milan, the carabinieri have questioned fifteen anarchists and trouble-makers about the bombings there, and they’ve charged eight of them, including di Angelo and Rivera.’
I looked at him. ‘I thought they were based in Rome.’
‘They were both in Milan a few weeks before the bombing. The Italians think they might have been scouting around.’
‘I see.’ Well, that put paid to Haggard’s little idea, at least – I could hardly storm Milan’s police station and bump off a couple of their prisoners.
‘But it’s hardly over,’ said Severn. ‘Tensions are rising all over the place, and strikes and protests have now become almost the norm. Teachers, civil servants and railway workers have been on strike for the last few days, and a few hours ago several thousand Maoists stormed a Soviet May Day celebration and all hell broke loose, apparently. There are also rumours flying around that there’s a coup in the works. It’s a fairly explosive situation.’
I looked out of the window. An Agip dog whipped past, and then I started noticing the trees: ilexes, pines, even the occasional palm. In the blocks of flats lining the street, bougainvillea caught the evening sun in the highest trellises, and as we approached the next set of traffic lights I spotted a market stall selling fruit and vegetables in one of the side streets. Not much seemed to have changed in Rome, and I wondered if there was anything particularly out of the ordinary in Severn’s summary. Analysis this close to events was often prone to exaggeration, and he was, of course, trying to show me he was on top of things. Coups were forever being rumoured in Italy – one had very nearly taken place when I’d been here last – and I’d just seen London’s May Day march at close quarters, and that hadn’t been pretty, either. Britain had more than its fair share of strikes at the moment, and army units had even been posted to Northern Ireland after a recent spate of firebombs… One could probably give a similarly grim sit-rep for most Western European countries, if one chose.
‘And Barchetti?’ I asked. ‘When’s your next scheduled meet with him?’
‘Oh-ten-hundred tomorrow. The National Gallery of Modern Art.’
‘Good. You can brief me over breakfast.’
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I tensed.
‘There’s good news and bad news,’ he said. ‘Which would you like first?’
I didn’t reply.
‘The Italians say they have more information about Arte come Terrore, and are happy to share it with us.’
‘And what’s the good news?’
He laughed. ‘That was the good news, Paul!’ I glanced at him. ‘Marco Zimotti wants to brief you at dinner this evening.’
‘Dinner? Not on – I need to get some kip. I’ve had rather a long day.’
He smiled at the understatement. You don’t know the half of it, I thought.
‘I’m afraid Lennox is insisting – visiting dignitary and all that.’
Christ, that was just what I needed. Lennox was the ambassador, a pompous fool I’d encountered several times before, and Zimotti was the new head of Italian military intelligence, Giacomo’s replacement. I had never met him, but knew him by reputation: a tough customer, by all accounts. It sounded like he’d strong-armed his way into a meeting once he’d heard I was on my way. Still, if he did have anything useful on Arte come Terrore’s plans, I might be able to tie up everything for Haggard and get back to London faster.
‘All right,’ I said. �
��Dinner it is, but let’s try to make it fast, shall we? But tell me about yourself, Charles – are you enjoying Rome?’ I didn’t care, especially, but it might help to show I was friendly: I was invading his turf, and he’d naturally be a little nervous.
He beeped at a passing motorcyclist and made a face. ‘Can’t say I do, much,’ he said. ‘The summers are too bloody hot and the winters aren’t much better than London. Nobody ever gets anything done and, frankly, once you’ve seen the monuments there’s not a lot to do, other than get hassled by beggars and cats in the street. One might as well be in Africa. Didn’t you find?’
I smiled. I suspected that in a few years’ time he would be attacked by a pang of longing for the place, and would have forgotten all about the beggars. I considered telling him about what was going on in at least one corner of Africa that I knew of, but decided it wasn’t worth it.
I looked out of the window again. We were approaching the centre of town now, turning into Via Cristoforo Colombo. Traffic was light on account of it being Primo Maggio, and I spotted a few students with banners wandering along the pavement. We passed a bar, and for a moment I caught the eye of a pretty young girl, who flashed a mouth full of gleaming teeth at me. It was an infuriating country, no doubt, and God knew I didn’t want to be here on Haggard’s wild-goose chase while Innes was asking awkward questions in London. But there was something about it I couldn’t help liking. It was carefree, even in the face of political strife and bloodshed. There was something living about the place, and you could feel it pulsing around you, in the tooting of the horns, the policemen strutting about in their spotless uniforms, the mothers slapping their children around the head. Cooped up in that office in London I’d forgotten what living was. I’d remembered it in Nigeria – there was nothing like nearly losing your life to make you appreciate it all the more – but this was more like it. This was a place where life was appreciated. Perhaps it was time to get out, retire, buy a little villa somewhere in the south…