Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (11 page)

He positioned himself carefully during the final approach to the villa neither too near the road, where he would be visible to passing vehicles, nor too near the cliff edge, where he might be seen against the slightly lighter skyline. Three times cars swept along the coast road but on each occasion their lights warned him long before their arrival and he was crouched low and completely hidden when they passed.

He was adjusted to the darkness when he got to the villa perimeter, conscious of the solid blackness of the wall. Near to it, Fantani squatted, settling himself for the wait, head tensed to one side for any animal or human sound to indicate a regular patrol he’d failed to detect from the overlooking hill. It was thirty minutes before he moved, sure there was none.

Near the clifltop the wind was stronger, blowing harder against him than he had expected. He hoped it wouldn’t cause difficulties. Where the wall ended he crouched again, gazing out at the fan-like half-circle, wanting to impress everything about it into his mind. There were about forty spikes, spear-shaped at their ends and patterned together by looped metal spokes radiating outwards; closer, Fantani saw it exactly like a spider’s web cut in half. He groped about his feet, discarding the first two things his hand encountered and finally locating a stick stout enough for the purpose. He edged closer, so he wouldn’t be defeated by the wind, and threw it at the metal, eyes half closed for a spark of contact if the electrification had been continued in some way he hadn’t identified. The twig hit the metal, without any flash, lodged for a few moments between one of the supporting arms and fell away into the darkness below. Fantani was able to trace its descent, because floodlights had been switched on from the villa. By leaning out slightly he could look down at the ambassador’s private beach. At the foot of the cliff a jetty nosed out into the black water and a speedboat jostled at a mooring.

Fantani spread his hands along his thighs, massaging them in readiness for the jump, taking in deep breaths to calm himself. The wind was gusting and he stayed crouched, waiting for it to drop. He started to go and faltered, settling down again, angry at the hesitation. He squeezed the tension out of his hands, coiled ready, and when the wind lessened launched himself outwards. He leaped spreadeagled, arms and legs wide for any support, aiming for the widest part of the half-circle. The villa floodlighting helped, silhouetting the outline as he arced towards it, over the four-hundred metre drop.

Fantani landed well, both hands connecting with one of the horizontal bars and his left foot slotting into place. He winced as his unsupported right shin hit the metal before he got a foothold there. He was completely exposed now, like some insect trapped in the spider’s web of metal, the wind plucking at his clothing and strong enough to sting his eyes. He hung there, recovering his composure, and then crabbed out further, towards the speared ends. Near the edge he paused, preparing himself for the strain. He propped his right arm inside the furthermost spoke and wedged his foot. For several seconds he hung, with his left arm and leg dangling free and unsupported, then he grabbed around the points, snatching for purchase on the other side. The tips pressed against the entire length of his body as if he were being impaled, and he winced against the pressure; they were sharper than he had expected them to be. First his hand and then his leg connected. He gripped tightly, anchoring his body, then released his right hand and pulled himself in a swinging manoeuvre around the barrier to gain the villa side.

Fantani had to climb up the web to bring himself level with the cliff and feel with his foot, without being able to look backwards, for solid ground. With a toehold, he levered himself further onto the cliff. Fantani was stretched out now, feet on the cliff and hands clinging to the metal struts, his back bent painfully between. Using the strength from his shoulders, Fantani heaved himself up onto the cliff, until there was solid ground to the level of his chest and he could release the metal without overbalancing onto the beach below.

Fantani was panting and wet with sweat, which was drying coldly against his face and back. He was shaking and knew the coldness was only partially responsible. They’d made the final acceptance job bloody difficult.

At last he stood, vaulted the fence, and pulled into the protection of some trees; cypresses, just like the driveway. They had been planted in a regimented line, close-patterned, and the permanent shadows made perfect cover. It took him almost to the house, sufficiently close to gaze in through the uncurtained windows. It was a kitchen area, with the servants’ quarters alongside. At first he thought there were eight around the table but then a girl appeared, waiting upon the others. So the ambassador and his wife must be at the residence in Rome; that was going to make it easier.

He retreated from the lighted part of the house, still using the tree concealment to gain the darkened wall. He hunched, trying to recall from the plans inside his jacket where he was. The identified kitchen provided the guide. West wing, nearest the drive; that meant the study and drawing rooms. There were breaker points on the window sashes and verandah windows to the study, according to the plans. Fantani moved forward, confirming the layout when he got nearer. He went confidently to the drawing room window, counting first laterally and then horizontally the paned windows, isolating the third from the ground. He unstrapped the glass-cutter from his wrist and incisively arced an area. He gummed tape strips across the cut line, to prevent the glass either shattering or falling noisily into the room, and cuffed it with the heel of his hand. It broke cleanly, swinging inwards on the sticky tape hinges. Fantani eased in his hand, feeling for the connections between the doors which, if broken, would sound the alarm. They jutted out like nipples and Fantani fingered them familiarly. He took the bypass leads from his other wrist, shook out the wire to give him the maximum entry when the doors opened and went in again through the hole, attaching the alligator clips to each nipple. Fantini counted up again to get alongside the latch, and made another entry like the first. He’d been prepared for the lock to be empty, but the key was carelessly in place. He turned it, depressed the handle and, hesitating only momentarily, pushed the door open to the full extent of the bypass leads. There was no jangle of alarms.

Fantani, forewarned, did not walk directly in but short-stepped sideways, avoiding the secondary alarm system activated by the pressure pads beneath the window carpeting.

Clear of the French windows, he went cautiously towards the door leading further into the house, hands held out for any obstruction. At the door he stopped, listening with his head close against a panel. From the other side there was silence. Cautious still, Fantani pushed open the door and waited again. There was no sound. He widened it sufficiently to see out and ensure the corridor was empty, emerging into the brightly lit passageway. He’d been in darkness for so long that the suddenness of the light burst at him. He blinked against it, anxious for darkness again. The approach to the second storey curved around the rim of the vestibule, a broad, sweeping staircase wide enough for at least four people to ascend, all comfortably abreast. Fantani ran up lightly, pausing at the top to regain his sense of direction. Guest bedrooms left and right, master suite ahead with the best view of the Tyrrhenian Sea. At the door he paused, listening again for any noise from inside. Although he heard nothing, Fantani was not satisfied. He gently lowered the handle and eased the door ajar, standing back to run if there was a sudden challenge. There was nothing. Fantani hurried in, securing the door behind him, alert for the deep breathing of someone asleep. He checked that the drapes were closed and actually felt out over the bed, as a final insurance against its being occupied, before he put on the light.

This wasn’t a shared bedroom, Fantani knew at once. Only a man had ever slept here: a proud man, conscious of his success. Near the dressing table there was a bust, which Fantani presumed to be the ambassador. By switching on the light he’d activated the spotlight cleverly mounted alongside one of the wardrobes: it gave the carving a godlike appearance. The Italian’s eyes moved uninterestedly over the pictures and diplomas, stopping at the bed. It was turned back only on one side, with pyjamas neatly laid out. So they weren’t sleeping at the official residence.

Spurred by the warning, Fantani hurried to what was obviously the communicating door, looking for the room that had been identified on the documents he’d studied. The dressing room was a large, square place lined with cupboards, apart from one entire wall elaborately arranged as a woman’s make-up area, with lights fixed carefully around the mirror. Fantani took it all in at a glance, seeking the desk. He drew the safe blueprint from his jacket, laying it out beside him on the floor. There was no disturbance of the carpet to indicate how the pedestal might turn and Fantani felt a momentary lurch of uncertainty. He groped back, beneath the leg area. The securing bolt came snugly beneath his fingers. He slid it easily aside and pushed, lightly at first and then more strongly. The left support swivelled sideways. Fantani stooped low inside the cramped space, positioning the shortened stethoscope against the combination dial. He began to sweat again because of the nervousness and the tightly enclosed space, impatient for the numbers to co-ordinate with their code and snap into place. Around him the house remained quiet and undisturbed.

At the count of seven, Fantani began gently easing the lid: it lifted at nine. He stopped abruptly, taking the thin tip of the glass-cutter and running it gently beneath the rim, feeling for any alarm trigger. Satisfied there was none, Fantani lifted the top off completely, staring down inside the safe, feeling the sharp burst of sensual pleasure more intense than he ever felt gazing at the naked body of a waiting woman. Beneath the circular opening the safe opened into a square retaining area and in it jewel boxes and containers were stacked like bricks in a child’s construction game.

Fantani took the cases individually from the safe, emptying their contents into the silk bag. Every colour in the spectrum dazzled up at him, reds and greens and blues and iced white, and he felt the excitement block in his throat. His hand was shaking when he replaced the safe top and twirled the dial to lock it. He re-positioned the covering pedestal and swept his hand across the carpet to erase any signs of disturbance. He decided to leave as he had entered, through the male bedroom. He turned off the dressing-room lights, crossed the darkened room and eased open the door to the landing and the widely sweeping staircase. He was halfway out when he heard the woman’s voice, talking animatedly, before he snatched back into the bedroom.

He was trapped.

The interrogation rooms were subterranean, far below ground level, but there was no dungeon impression. They were reached by a smooth operating lift and the corridors were rubber-tiled and well lighted by concealed strips behind unbreakable overhead glass, so that it appeared more like a hospital.

Hotovy was in one of the central rooms. Kalenin stopped just inside the door. The man was in a sitting position but not really in a chair. It was a metal frame, moulded to support a human shape. Hotovy was clamped into it, completely naked, with metal bands around his wrists, arms, waist, ankles and thighs, making him utterly immobile. There was also a band around his neck to keep him upright. The finger ends were pulped and crushed and electrodes were pasted to his genitals and nipples. Where he had been forced up against the tethering, in the agony of the current being applied, his body was purpled and bloodied. There were some haphazard whip marks across his chest and thighs, and his face was swollen and bruised. The eyes moved, although dully, at Kalenin’s entry. There was a telephone just inside the door and Kalenin used it to summon the waiting doctors. There were three of them.

‘What exactly do you want?’ asked the physician in charge.

‘Complete awareness,’ said Kalenin. ‘He’s got to recognize others can suffer as he has.’

‘For how long?’

Kalenin shrugged. ‘A brief confession. There’s only one thing I really want to know.’

‘Any concern about lasting effects?’

‘None.’

They set up an intravenous drip and then examined Hotovy for internal injuries. There was some spleen and liver enlargement, which they diagnosed as bruising, but an encephalogram disclosed no brain damage. Hotovy was already stirring when they prepared the other injections. The first stimulant they put into his arm, but the second, larger, dose they pumped directly into the aorta, an insertion only normally used for resuscitation after a heart collapse. Hotovy’s recovery was dramatic and complete, to full consciousness. Kalenin had expected the man to show fear: certainly there was apprehension but there was still a sullen resistance.

‘Thirty minutes,’ estimated the chief surgeon.

‘Bring him,’ ordered Kalenin, striding from the room.

Supported by guards on either side Hotovy was hauled, feet dragging, behind the KGB chief. It was only a few yards to the other side of the interrogation area. Here the chambers were larger and partitioned, so that observers could watch questioning unseen from a soundproofed box. Behind the glass, Hotovy’s wife and two sons sat cowed on a central bench. The woman wore a shapeless prison dress and the boys were clinging to her, terrified. As they watched, one gave way and began to cry and the woman pulled him into her shoulder to comfort him.

Hotovy gave a cut-off, strangled moan and pushed forward against the glass. The guards were ready and held him back. The Czech’s head moved, like a boxer who has taken too much punishment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Please no.’

‘Rome,’ demanded Kalenin. ‘What did you tell the British about Rome?’

Hotovy looked round bewildered. ‘Rome?’ he said. ‘I told them nothing about Rome.’

It was a genuine confession, thought Kalenin. ‘You made a query to your ministry in Prague. About British concern at our expansion in Africa. There’s a file record.’