He cursed to himself as he entered the room. He had forgotten about Sandra sitting underneath that silly phone, waiting for her ex-sergeant to ring. The whole office knew that, he mulled. Didn’t she ever go home? Couldn’t he even have a cup of coffee without being reminded of Cole? He collected his empty mug. As always, not so much as a hello passed between them. His mood change of a few minutes earlier got the better of him.
‘No calls from invisible sergeants, Sandra?’ he asked tersely as he stared at the phone.
She glanced up with her best fake smile and then dropped her head back to her work without uttering a word.
‘He won’t ring. And it’s high time you went back to your normal seat, thank you, Detective!’ he snapped.
Sandra dropped her pen, wondering what words she could use other than ‘get fucked’.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Boss,’ she replied innocently instead. ‘I’ve just been sitting here waiting for my informers to call.’
The tearoom phone was occasionally used by informers to reach detectives with information on sensitive investigations. Inspector Mack knew that, but also knew that Sandra was not involved with any such investigation at present. Mack took a few too many jam fancies and his coffee cup and walked out. He tapped loudly on the door frame before giving her his final word on the subject. ‘Return to your normal desk instantly, Detective. That’s an order.’
He felt a little easier as he walked back to his own office, the authority he had just exerted in part making up for his error of judgement in the waiting room below. A loud crashing noise could be heard coming from the tearoom down the hall as he bit into a jam fancy.
By the time Sandra had marched, disgruntled, back to her original desk, carrying a full ‘in’ and ‘out’ tray, stacked with a pen jar and teledex, Leigh had wandered back upstairs, having said his ‘goodbyes’ and ‘good lucks’ to Penny. It was the sheer decency and honesty of informers like Penny, he reflected, that made the efforts in law enforcement so much easier, and he let her know that in no uncertain terms as she prepared to leave for good.
Another woman he thought was quite delicious, although somewhat older, yet a lot more fascinating, was now standing in front of him throwing office equipment around the room. Despite their sexual tryst, he wasn’t stupid enough to go anywhere near her right now. Instead, he tiptoed lightly to his PC; there was an urgent short report he needed to compile. A top-secret report, to the course director of the FBI, Quantico, Virginia, USA. Half an hour later, he looked up from the proof of his printed report and noticed that Sandra seemed to have calmed to an automatic pilot mode and sat working through a pile of documents. He dropped his report in front of her. She read through to the second paragraph, the bottom line.
… and as I am therefore required to take on the investigation of a terrorist threat in our own country by Al Qaeda, which will involve many months of secret inquiries in Melbourne, I must regrettably withdraw from your covert training course.
This report is top secret and I respectfully request that you speak to nobody, other than my superior, Detective Inspector Sandra Butler, on the above-mentioned telephone numbers.
Sandra noticed that Leigh had signed the report. She looked up. ‘Thanks for the promotion. What are you doing?’ she demanded.
‘I’m not going, obviously.’
‘What? And what’s this crap about a terrorist threat in Australia? There isn’t any such thing.’
‘The FBI doesn’t know that, and they won’t ring back here if it’s top secret, will they? That way I can fuck off.’
‘You’re on drugs, Leigh. Where the hell are you planning to fuck off to?’ she said as she looked over the report a second time.
‘Stromboli. Penny from Griffith just left. They’re planning to kill Jude as well.’
Sandra dropped the report and dropped her head into her hands.
Drug dealers didn’t tend to receive their orders by fax. But a couple of days previous Massimo waited impatiently in his cave for one such document, which served in some small way to break up the long hours as he hovered anxiously by his secret phone. Just in case Giuseppe got into any trouble transporting the precious freight from Germany. The Australian Godfather was to fax a photograph from the Café Azzurra. At least the old man would have the cute Penny transmit the picture to the long-winded Italian number. And so she did.
The happy-snap of Cole and Jude at their engagement dinner found its way into Massimo’s back pocket. He had a long drive ahead of him. Destination: Corleone, Sicily. Almost five hours away, with a ferry trip in the middle. By dusk, his car rolled into the tiny town in the Sicilian hills. He needed an important favour from his equivalent in the Corleone clan, the Cosa Nostra. It was they who had the corrupt connection to many of the customs officers throughout Italy. If his adversary was still on the mainland, he wanted him found. Jude was a bonus.
As a gesture of goodwill, Massimo took with him, as a gift, a five-kilo bag of recently manufactured ecstasy tablets, just to stir the pot.
Tommy had put away his joggers and Bees-Knees, well and truly. The Browning automatic had taken up semi-permanent residence, wrapped in plastic and buried in the back of the duck pen behind the B&B. He had done very little in the past couple of weeks other than improve his suntan and his appreciation for Sicilian food. He and Cinzia had also become great confidantes. She confided in Tommy about her fractured love in Palermo, which she hoped to repair upon her return the following day. Her holiday in the sun was nearing its end.
Cinzia, Tommy, Nick the Greek and Aggie had planned a dinner together that evening, as they did most evenings. But tonight they were to dine at the salubrious La Locanda del Barbablu, which just happened to be immediately across the laneway from Casa Greco. Cinzia and Tommy had dined virtually everywhere on the island, but they had saved La Locanda for their final night. The menu was so highly thought of with its nightly changing five-course degustazione and superb wine list that the chef was spoken of in places as far away as Rome.
Tommy had given much thought to what he might do once Cinzia had left the scene. The other guests who had come and gone during his time were mostly couples. Not company for a lone lodger. On the way down to the beach that afternoon, they dropped in to the tiny pasticceria for their usual bag of warm biscuits and a couple of bottles of water. He had quickly checked his email at La Libreria sull’isola, a button-sized bookshop he had frequented. There were two terminals in the back corner that operated a couple of times a day for a few hours apiece. They were painfully slow but no more painful than the feeling that had enveloped Tommy this morning when he had found no email from Sandra. He was starting to wonder whether she had received the postcard, whether the address he had used was correct or, if it was, whether the team had understood the code and the significance of the card. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would have to move on again, perhaps picking another island, before his money ran out.
Once he logged off, he and Cinzia took to the beach. His friend was rested and tanned but anxious about her return to Palermo, and she was feeling mischievous. As they walked she playfully flicked Tommy with her beach towel and teased him with the bag of biscuits.
Later, sitting on their deckchairs, he and Cinzia discussed the other islands of the Aeolian Archipelago.
‘Lipari is a big island, Tomasso, with many people. Maybe if you want something little then you should go to Panarea; it’s like Stromboli, very Greek, very tiny, very expensive, and very good biscuits.’
Tommy laughed, but didn’t bother responding to her recommendation as soon as he heard the word expensive. He gazed at the shallow water, at the crowds that had slowly increased day by day. Mostly couples sharing suntan lotion, water bottles and blissful harmony. He spied a solitary bikini-clad girl up to her thighs in the tiny waves. She was looking out to sea. He admired her figure, albeit in need of a tanning. Her black bikini clung snugly with its traditional two-strap top and hip-hugging bottoms with a tiny w
hite belt threaded through.
He and Cinzia sat up together, in the shade of their umbrella, to take a break from the sun and make short work of a pair of nectarines. It was now well past lunchtime. The bikini girl had turned to face the beach and surveyed the crowd and the beautiful bodies in the glaring sun. She glanced momentarily at Cinzia, with her deep ochre colour and her tiny figure, then at Tommy, equally bronzed and looking fit. She thought they made a good couple. Her eyes continued scanning the deckchairs, getting familiar with her territory; she had only been on the island a couple of days, and was very, very alone. She looked back across the water towards the line of Calabria. Tommy had been casually eyeing her figure, then, when he saw her profile, his heart jumped.
He wiped the juice from his lips and, using a splash of water from the bottle, he washed his hands and stood up quickly. Cinzia watched in surprise. Tommy walked gingerly over the wet stones towards the bikini girl, who was now facing away from him. He waded through the shallows to stand immediately behind the blonde. He crossed his arms firmly and said in his best Sean Connery accent, ‘Goodwin, Cole Goodwin.’
The girl froze for a second before she spun around. Jude then faced Cole straight on. Her eyes desperately took in his change of appearance. No more moustache, no more long hair, clean shaven, tanned. She threw both hands ecstatically into the air and leapt on him yelling ‘You idiot! You complete idiot!’ They kissed in the water with a somewhat bemused Cinzia staring on, half a nectarine still in her hand.
Jude stood under the cooling shower, the water trickling down her body. Her eyes focused on the black sand between her toes pooling as it spiralled down the drain. It washed away, as did the two months of utter worry, tension and stress. Her body tingled with the expectation of what lay ahead at the end of the evening. She gently massaged suds over her shoulders, across her breasts and under her chin as she closed her eyes and drifted back to the sexual tension that had teased her and Cole. But, no longer; she was certain that she was now gloriously in love and lust, pleased to be finally stuck on a magnificent island with the man of her dreams.
As she put on her make-up and fussed over her hair, she felt her hands shaking with anticipation. She stepped from her marbled bathroom into a magnificent oversized bedroom. Tommy had booked them a room at the house that the locals called Casa Rosso; the red house, the most famous building on the island. It was the house that had been rented by Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini when they too were stuck on the deserted island, filming their movie. They had stayed six months in that same room. The house was now owned by two brothers who squabbled occasionally, and spent a good deal of the rest of the time keeping tourists at bay. It too was on Via Vittoria Emmanuelle, the next house up from Casa Greco. The only thing between the two homes was the tiny orchard.
Tommy stepped in through the french doors off the ornate little garden full of fruit trees. He had cut across the orchard from Nick the Greek’s, having made a convenient diversion as Jude showered, to explain to his three friends that Jude was an ex-girlfriend who lived in Australia. Their meeting had been completely accidental, but he hoped they would indulge him and allow her to join them for dinner that evening. Nick was unfussed with the explanation; he was pleased to know that Tommy would have company once Cinzia departed.
Tommy had whispered to Jude in the water, before he had introduced her to Cinzia, about his alias and supposed background. A covert operative of her experience would adjust rapidly.
And now she stood before him, wrapped in an oversized thick white bath towel, holding a sealed yellow envelope. He lay on the bed admiring her and thinking of ways to cancel dinner, before he accepted the envelope from her damp, shaking hand.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘She told me. But you open it.’
And he did, tearing a neat break along the seal of the lip. He tipped the contents onto the white linen sheets. A brand-new passport, Visa card, MasterCard and driver’s licence in the name of Robert Bergman lay before him, along with 3000 euros in large denominations.
‘Spud arranged it in an hour,’ Jude said as he stared down at his new self on the bed.
His face lit up; he thought of Spud and Leigh. Of his dear friend Sandra and her support since he had been in this mess.
‘You know Sandra sits by the phone every day, waiting for you to call, worrying about you?’
He looked up at Jude.
‘I’ve been selfish, haven’t I? Not making more contact.’
‘No, you haven’t. Whatever you did worked. You’re alive and that’s the most important thing. Email Sandra tomorrow and give her a good bottom line. In the meantime we have a performance to put on and dinner to eat.’
Given that Nick and Aggie were the restaurant’s most immediate neighbours, and were also kind enough to frequently pass on bookings from their own guests, the Casa Greco crowd of five enjoyed the best table in the house. An ornate dinner service of fine silver cutlery and crisp starched napkins graced their grand old mahogany table in the centre of the lush Mediterranean courtyard. ‘Piccola Trattoria’, a beautiful ballad by Fabio Concato, was playing; it reminded Tommy of the many meals he had endured, alone, in the occasional little trattoria, thinking of Jude.
Tommy, at the head of the table, under a leafy peppercorn tree, led the way with the conversation during the night. After all, he was the nexus between each of the dining guests. The delicately flavoured zuppa di pesce was cleared away and Tommy poured them all another splash of the chosen Cantina de Bartoli 2005 inzolia white wine to enjoy while they waited for their second course, carpaccio of smoked Aeolian swordfish with the zest of limes. The conversation flowed easily; it was clear that each of these five people could have been friends anytime, anywhere.
‘So, Tomasso, how long has it been since you and Jude saw each other?’ Nick enquired, with a sly wink in Tommy’s direction.
A cautious Tommy looked across at Jude. She reassured him with a cheeky glance. He had a déjà vu moment of the many times he and Jude had dined with the Mafia and faced similar questions about their relationship. They were so close back then and for that reason he enjoyed Nick’s question.
‘Well now, Nick,’ he began, as if seriously racking his brain for the date of some non-existent distant rendezvous. ‘I think it would be at least a year or more. What do you think, Jude?’
She too presented a realistically studious face before offering her own version of the events, ‘Maybe a year and a half, I think, Tommy. Didn’t we celebrate my thirty-third birthday together in London?’
‘Of course, you’re right, tenth of March last year, wasn’t it? We went to that new Terrance Conran restaurant?’ Tommy answered. ‘And I drove you out to the airport next morning.’
‘Back to Australia and you flew on to Edinburgh.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he feigned.
‘You were going to Sotheby’s to buy three Michael McCartney oil paintings,’ said Jude.
‘I bought them, you know. Quite a good price, too. They’re hanging in the flat in London—flew back down with them only a few days after.’
Tommy raised his glass and four others followed.
‘So, how long do you plan to stay in Stromboli, Jude?’ enquired Cinzia.
‘I hadn’t planned on staying long at all,’ she replied as she turned to take in Tommy’s reaction. ‘I was just passing through. I’d read a romantic story once about Ingrid Bergman and I always wanted to stay at the house.’
‘And Tomasso,’ Cinzia’s gaze too drifted to the man at the end of the table. ‘You will go on to Panarea?’
‘I’m not too sure any more,’ he replied, as he stared lustfully across at Jude.
Nick, who saw the pairs of locked eyes, added, ‘I think the red house will be occupied for a while.’
Two hours later, after the tagliatelle, char-grilled squab and pomegranate panna cotta, Tommy was quick to take the cheque across to the cashier and settle the entire account privately with his new Visa card
and pseudonym. He had spent too long eating quick frugal meals and managing his palate on house wine and local beer. Robert Bergman was relishing the chance to splurge, just this once.
Jude walked in front with the aid of her torch, through the side gate, weaving past the nectarine trees to the open french doors, one hand holding Tommy’s. She hardly needed the torch with the glow from the full moon over the distant hills of Calabria. The fine lace curtains fluttered softly in the light warm breeze. She casually pushed them to one side, to allow them entry to the luxurious room. The romantic glow from the outside continued in their boudoir; the owners had thoughtfully lit the bedside candles.
‘What was that rubbish about Edinburgh?’ she asked Tommy playfully, as she ran her fingers through his short locks.
‘The same rubbish you put out about Michael McCartney— who’s he?’ Tommy placed his arms around Jude’s waist and drew her to him.
‘Probably Paul’s little brother. Who knows? I don’t.’ She giggled as she stepped in even closer.
They laughed together at their ability to work a table under pressure. They truly were a pigeon pair. Not just as operatives, but in their feelings towards each other. The breeze continued to play with the doorway curtains. Tommy broke away momentarily and pushed down on the CD button. He had borrowed the restaurant’s Fabio Concato CD and played the romantic ‘Buonanotte amore’ as he took Jude in his arms once more. They moved together in a near-motionless dance. Her hand moved up to caress his clean-shaven chin, then traced across the smoothness of his top lip to rest on his mouth. He reached up, held her fingers and kissed them gently. His head lowered to meet hers and he placed his lips firmly on hers. Tommy reached for the thin straps of her black silk dress and eased them gently from her soft white shoulders. The gown fell to the terracotta tiles in one fluid movement. She stepped back two paces to find the softness of the feather down. Tommy unbuttoned his shirt and partnered it with the dress as he slowly eased his eager body onto hers. Jude blew out her bedside candle.
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