Two Women in Rome

by Elizabeth Buchan

  Later, we were seated in the garden of a Roman villa for the open-air performance of Romeo and Juliet. Ballet in Italy ranks second to opera, but the costumes are always superb and the beauty of the dancers set off Juliet’s girlish muslins and the ornamental silks of the Capulet and Montague households.

  It was warm and dark, the air scented with herbs, ripening figs and cigarette smoke. Juliet was gathering the courage to drink the friar’s concoction and a full moon rose behind the stage.

  It was so beautiful, so unmatchable, a perhaps never-to-berepeated combination of beauty, sensation and joy, and it choked me to consider that, if I died, I would never feel, or see, those elements again.

  The general’s day having been so successful, he took it out on me in bed that night.

  I flattered him and told him he was in fine form and asked him if something particular had happened.

  He smacked my bottom and – and I had to resist the urge to kill him – told me that I was in bed with a powerful man.

  There was no need to tell me, I said. I knew I was with a powerful general, a leader of men.

  He grew philosophical. Armies don’t disband at the end of wars, he said, but continue in various shapes and forms. He then said: I am that army.

  How preposterous he was and how dangerous, not least because he was stupid.

  Which army would that be? I asked. Not unreasonably. He grabbed my arm so hard it hurt and said it was secret and it was none of my business.

  I thought of making the joke: I’ll just imagine your uniform, but thought better of it.

  He launched himself on to me so heavily that it was difficult to breathe and warned me to keep my mouth shut. He added he would be watching …

  I lay quite still and said that I wouldn’t ever be so foolish or disloyal.

  He read me the lecture. I was to remember that he was very powerful and he didn’t want me going around being loose mouthed.

  His hand crept over my breast and squeezed hard.

  I made no sound. I did not move.

  He whipped his hand away and declared he was being playful.

  I told him that I had got used to it.

  Back in Rome, the police were everywhere stopping and searching. An Iranian neighbour down the street has been dragged off for questioning.

  Report to Rex:

  The general continues to drop hints that he belonged to the secret army, known as the ‘Stay Behind Army’. It is operational but never, ever acknowledged. The doctrine of deniability is sacrosanct.

  Rex and I analyse whether the general is using me to set up eventual useful contacts should the situation get too tricky for him and he needs to bail out of Italy. I am reasonably certain that the general has not cottoned on to who I am, but the discussion is the trigger for me to take more precautions.

  The last few weeks have aged Rex. We touched on how to keep healthy and sane and he studiously avoided any reference to my situation. I remind him that I won’t be around much longer, which he doesn’t like. Do I know, he asked me, how much effort it requires to bed in someone new?

  Not exactly professional but I forgive him because it is a compliment.

  As I walked back to the Trastevere, I stopped to listen to a radio blaring through an open window.

  After fifty-five days of captivity, Aldo Moro has been found stuffed into the boot of a Renault.

  He is dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LOTTIE HAD BEEN PLAYING SAFE AND STOWING THE JOURNAL in the archive each evening. Tonight, it was late and the archive was empty.

  The atmosphere challenged her, as it sometimes did, and the uplighters, which she now saw as a little sinister, contributed further to her disquiet and she fancied she could hear the pent-up voices corralled in their boxes and files. Eccentrics, villains, the saintly and those who resented dying prematurely – Nina among them, protesting her death.

  At the appropriate section, she inspected the shelves, deriving a keen professional pleasure in seeing the Lawrence files now stowed in situ.

  A noise checked her. A footstep? A soft click of a door closing? It took Lottie a few seconds to work out that it had come from the wrong end of the archive.

  She patrolled down the aisle, right up to the stone wall that signalled the archive’s limit. All was in order.

  She had noticed before that the shelving unit at this end was unlabelled but had made nothing of it. The unit had no handle and was, presumably, empty and awaiting future material. She placed a hand on one of its doors to test it. As well maintained as everything was in the archive, the pressure caused the two halves to roll apart.

  Inside was empty shelving and very dark. About to beat a retreat, Lottie pointed her phone torch down the defile and exclaimed under her breath.

  Set into a stone archway was a door. It looked old but, as the oiled lock clearly revealed by the torch’s beam suggested, in use.

  The arrangements in place, Gabriele was due at the Espatriati the following morning.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said Tom when Lottie told him.

  ‘Why on earth?’

  Even so, she was happy to have him alongside.

  A pale and impatient-looking Gabriele waited for them in the lobby. The formalities over, they took the lift to the basement to fetch the papers and the journal.

  With the now familiar hiss, the doors inched open and they filed in. A couple of the archivists were at work in the Medieval section, including Paul, whom Lottie introduced to Tom and Gabriele.

  Tom said: ‘Am I right, this area has only quite recently been in operation?’

  ‘Ten years or so,’ replied Paul. ‘Originally, the records were kept upstairs. Then, with better technology for preservation available, they were transferred down here. Which was always the plan, I think.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tom.

  Paul excused himself and vanished towards the lift.

  Lottie instructed Tom and Gabriele to wait by the reading area and went to check if the porter had left the trolley as requested.

  He was not there but the section was open.

  A touch alarmed, she stepped between the shelving and was brought up short. A figure with a torch was rifling through one of the box files.

  ‘Giuseppe Antonio …’

  In the gloom his clerical black appeared deeper and blacker and matched his expression.

  She switched on the light. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He blinked. ‘I could ask the same of you.’

  Lottie indicated the badge on her lanyard. ‘I’m the chief archivist. You’re the intruder.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m finding out what I should have investigated years ago.’ He held up a postcard. Lottie squinted at it and caught the word ‘Palacrino’.

  Pieces of jigsaw slid around, searching for their slot.

  One: Nina worked for Rex, feeding him snippets of intelligence during a time of extreme turbulence that would have been channelled back to the UK.

  Two: the US and Gladio units were working to provoke anti-left-wing sentiment in Italy.

  Three: the Palacrinos were on good terms with a general known to be ultra-right wing.

  Four: Nina slept with the general.

  A dank odour of corralled underground water sifted up from the floor. She smelled it alongside her own apprehension.

  The space was small enough to induce claustrophobia and, as she edged towards him, he shrank back against the shelves. ‘When did you find out about Gabriele and Nina and who Nina was?’

  The avuncular, if enigmatic, presence that he had taken pains to cultivate had been dropped and his tone was icy and bitter sounding. ‘Early on. We realised that she was relaying information to a handler.’ He dipped into sarcasm. ‘They should have brushed up on their fieldcraft.’

  ‘So you ran your nephew to find out things from Nina.’

  ‘If you like. For a little while, until it was time for him to buckle down.’

  ‘Imperilling his future. His ha
ppiness.’

  He nudged the open box file with an elbow. ‘Gabriele’s situation was not unknown. Young men at the beginning are often tempted. It is survivable. We had a bigger arena to consider, larger objectives than a small love affair.’

  ‘I would be willing to swear Nina never said a word, and you never found out a thing.’

  ‘You don’t have to open your mouth in order to say things. But I will concede, she was brave.’

  Lottie sat on her fury.

  ‘Where did Cardinal Dino come into this?’

  ‘Cardinal Dino?’ Antonio was taken aback. ‘He’s a man of the Church who had ambitions and liked to showcase his charity in order to get preferment. What you might call a “useful idiot”. Nothing else.’

  ‘Then, you’re the link …’

  No denial was issued. ‘And you’re the stranger, Signora. Best to be careful.’

  ‘As has been pointed out,’ she said coolly. ‘Please replace that material.’

  He took his time to do so. Lottie closed the box file and slotted it into the shelf. ‘You will leave her in peace.’

  ‘You may think this brings this episode to an end.’ She was surprised by his obvious regret. ‘But politics does not work like that. There is still much to be done.’

  She acknowledged the point silently and gestured for him to move into the aisle.

  ‘You’ve been here before,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard you. You were here last night. I reckon you’re worried, otherwise you wouldn’t take the risk of being discovered.’

  He clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘There are arrangements. Provisions.’

  ‘Provisions for what and for whom?’

  ‘Valerio Gianni will brief you.’

  Lottie understood. Under every stone, etc., etc.

  He pointed a finger at Lottie. ‘Your generation think you have it sewn up. But you’ve no idea how precarious civilisation is. What is required in sacrifices to shore it up. It takes only a war, a plague, the wrong political movement and down goes the house of cards.’

  He appeared to be having some trouble breathing and banged his chest with a fist. ‘I need to sit down.’

  She hoped that he realised the depth of her contempt. ‘You’d better come with me.’ She led him over to where Tom and Gabriele waited.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked an astonished Gabriele.

  Antonio grabbed hold of his nephew’s arm. ‘A chair. Please.’

  There was a fuss as they lowered him into it. Antonio took out his handkerchief and pressed it to his lips, which, now they were in better light, had noticeably paled.

  ‘Your uncle is wishing to destroy evidence about Nina Lawrence.’

  From his sitting position, Antonio gave an audible sigh.

  ‘That’s all finished,’ cried Gabriele angrily. ‘We had a love affair. It was a disaster and we paid for it. It was a long time ago and long forgotten. Why resurrect it?’

  The handkerchief again came into play. ‘She was not what you thought, my foolish Gabriele.’

  ‘What did I think? You have no idea.’

  What existed between this uncle and nephew had directed their lives, for good or ill. Il sangue non è acqua. Deep ties of blood and history.

  ‘I protected you, remember?’ said Antonio.

  Tom intervened. ‘Gabriele, your uncle is anxious for other reasons … He’s searching for leaked intelligence about the murder of Aldo Moro in May nineteen seventy-eight.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Antonio.

  Gabriele looked blank.

  ‘Nina was engaged in gathering information,’ said Tom.

  Lottie looked at him. She was not familiar with this Tom.

  ‘Nina?’ There was no doubting Gabriele’s intense surprise.

  ‘I warn you not to say anything more,’ said Antonio. There was a faint line of sweat on his top lip.

  Tom paid no attention. ‘Moro was kidnapped by the Red Brigades. But there is plausible evidence that the Red Brigades were being controlled by agents who belonged to the “Stay Behind Army”, the Gladio. And, behind them, the CIA. Possibly. It’s not proven. Nina was trying to assemble the picture.’

  Lottie stared at Tom and tiny threads of suspicion began to plait themselves into an explanation – the bomb he had gone to investigate, his anxiety about her work on the Nina Lawrence papers.

  Gabriele rounded on Antonio. ‘How did you know this about Nina?’

  ‘I took her to dinner. I wanted to meet her. Remember?’

  So?’

  ‘She had a minder there. Checking up. I happened to have spotted him in the Annona and it was easy to find out what was going on. Easy to make the connections.’ A spot of saliva appeared at the corner of his mouth and he dabbed at it. ‘Rome was – is – stuffed with spies. Every country had a string of them reporting back home.’

  Tom seized his moment. ‘The US saw the kidnapping as an opportunity to stabilise the centre-right and to encourage voters to turn against the left wing. Am I correct, Signor Antonio?’

  ‘Again, I suggest you shut up.’ Antonio’s suaveness was splintering.

  The jigsaw pieces shuffled into place.

  ‘You know this place well.’ Tom continued to address Antonio and it was not a question.

  ‘Tom …?’ said Lottie, angry with herself for taking so long to understand what had been going on.

  He ignored her. ‘It’s quite a story, you will agree. Originally, the Espatriati was the front for an ops-room for the Americans, who saw the fight against Communism as their primary task. The general would have held meetings down here, and the concealed door allowed agents and government figures to come and go in secret.’

  ‘That’s where the funds came from,’ said Lottie. ‘The CIA dollar.’

  ‘Did you kill Nina?’ Gabriele demanded with such ferocity that Antonio’s head snapped back. ‘Or did the Church have something to do with it?’

  ‘The Church?’ Antonio was genuinely shocked. ‘You thought the Church would murder?’

  ‘I’ve learnt anything’s possible.’ Gabriele dragged a second chair over to Antonio. ‘You know as well as I do.’

  Uncle and nephew squared up to each other. ‘Have you turned so much against something you were once part of?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gabriele. ‘I have and I did.’

  ‘I thought I had your measure,’ said Antonio.

  ‘You don’t.’

  The archive’s air conditioning shifted into another gear, giving off a subdued asthmatic wheeze.

  Antonio turned to Tom. ‘This is none of your business. I could cause trouble for you.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Having issued the sharp put-down, Tom continued, ‘I put it to you that it would be difficult for you if your snooping was made public.’ Antonio did not move a muscle. ‘But, as always, there’s a deal to be made. Tell us what happened to Nina Lawrence and nobody will say anything.’ He was cold, insistent and flinty. ‘Why search the Nina Lawrence files?’

  It was a curious place for an interrogation. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Lottie glanced around her. The hush, the dimness, the shine of the treated brick walls could double for a prison cell.

  ‘That wasn’t her name,’ Antonio admitted eventually.

  ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It was Estelle Keyes.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Lottie.

  Tom glanced at Lottie. ‘I warned you I would look into the case.’

  Antonio shifted. ‘I see you have surprised your wife. I wonder if she understands.’

  What?

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ said Lottie, knowing there were important things she had missed. She addressed Gabriele. ‘The EK of the painting?’

  ‘Nina Lawrence was not who she said she was. Beginning with her name,’ said Antonio. ‘Not unusual. Rome is that kind of city.’ He spread out his well-kept hands. ‘Gabriele, the woman who you consorted with … Estelle … worked for intelligence. She found out some things and went too far.’

&nb
sp; Gabriele sat down opposite his uncle. Their faces were shrouded in the half-light, their body language tense and hostile. Yet they were similar and there was no question that they were cut from the same cloth.

  This, then, was the drama of a family’s power over its members – and its downfall.

  ‘Tell me,’ demanded Gabriele, this time with menace. ‘You tell me she did not die because she and I were lovers. She died because …?’

  His uncle met his gaze. ‘I’ve told you what I know.’

  ‘Liar.’

  Antonio raised an arm, as if to defend himself against the words coming his way – and Lottie perceived that, if he did not know it himself, losing his nephew once and for all would be a body blow to an ageing man.

  Over the years, Lottie had wrestled with documents under her remit to arrive at the correct answers. She had learned the pitfalls and, more than once, had been deceived and waylaid. It was a matter of knowing how to interrogate the material, using every scrap of knowledge at her disposal.

  She did so now.

  ‘You met Nina and General Rasella at a restaurant in the summer of nineteen seventy-eight?’

  Antonio’s expression was blank. ‘I’ve no recollection.’

  ‘You and the general talked,’ said Lottie. ‘She recorded it in the account she kept.’

  Antonio’s gaze flicked towards the archive’s shelves.

  ‘Nina kept accurate records.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Well hidden and well guarded.’ Tom placed a restraining hand on Lottie’s shoulder. ‘Did you tell the general that Nina Lawrence … Estelle … was not who she said she was? Information he would have had no compunction in using.’

  ‘Supposition. The general knew the game. He would have been on alert.’

  ‘But you both shared the same right-wing political beliefs and it’s possible that you supplied the information that would harm her. One, she was intelligence-gathering at a time of maximum upheaval and was getting close to discovering who was involved in the Moro affair, including possibly the general himself. Two, she had a child.’