Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (20 page)

‘Yes,’ said Solomatin. He opened it and Vasily Leonov came quickly in off the corridor.

‘Sorry, I can’t shake hands,’ said Fantani, indicating his tightly strapped arm.

Leonov, who couldn’t speak Italian and didn’t understand the remark, raised his hand anyway and Fantani had the briefest glimpse of the Tokarev before it fired. He was killed instantly, his body lifted back over the chair arm and then folding sideways, so that he ended in an oddly crouched position, as if he were praying.

Behind, Solomatin retched. Leonov turned to him curiously and said, ‘What’s the matter?’

On the other side of town Henry Walsingham replaced the receiver after the telephone call and said, ‘They’ve changed the time: it’s eight o’clock.’

23

The photograph that Sir Alistair Wilson had ordered from London had arrived by the time he and Naire-Hamilton got to the embassy. They went directly to the communications room, unpeeling it from the transmission drum, and carried it limply into the ambassador’s office. Billington’s antipathy still showed. The intelligence chief decided to ignore it. He thrust the picture towards the ambassador and said, ‘Is this the man?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why?’

Wilson’s whole body appeared to deflate. ‘He’s a traitor,’ he said simply. ‘Seven years ago he wrecked an intelligence department.’

Billington laughed uncertainly. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘I wish I weren’t.’

‘Good God!’

‘I want to know everything,’ said Wilson.

‘There’s little to tell. I warned my underwriter I wanted the jewellery revalued, according to the policy terms and they sent this man. He spent two days at the villa, checking the security and itemizing the pieces. Then he came on the day of the robbery and told me the thieves would most likely offer it back, at a price. And asked me to cooperate.…’

‘What happened tonight?’ demanded the intelligence director.

‘I had a call from Walsingham about an hour ago. He said Muffin had contacted him and that an exchange had been agreed. He was meeting him and hoped to recover the jewellery.’

From the surveillance already imposed, Wilson knew the security man was still in his apartment. And there were five men outside, waiting to follow wherever he went.

‘Did he say where the meeting was taking place?’

‘Some apartment complex on the Via Salaria.… 35, I think. Yes, 35.’

‘What time?’

‘Eight forty-five.’

Wilson and Naire-Hamilton looked at their watches simultaneously. ‘Still more than an hour,’ said the Permanent Under Secretary.

‘We’re going to get him!’ said Wilson in a sudden flare of confidence.

‘What about the police?’ suggested the ambassador.

‘No!’ It was Naire-Hamilton who spoke, his voice loud. Seeming surprised at his own outburst he said more quietly. ‘Not yet.’

‘We’re risking an incident,’ said Billington.

‘We’re attempting to avoid one,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘I have ultimate responsibility here,’ said the ambassador.

‘It’s a debatable point,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘If you want a ruling I suggest you contact the Prime Minister’s office.’

‘Would someone tell me what’s going on?’ demanded Billington.

Henry Walsingham let his car coast slowly along the Via Salaria as he strained through the darkness to make out the numbering. The rush-hour traffic was still heavy and there were hoots of irritation from behind him. The security man parked and checked the time, relieved that he was five minutes early. He felt like he had during the army exercises, particularly on the plains of Germany, with men behind him and hoping to Christ he didn’t make a ridiculous mistake.

He got out, unaware of the two following cars that had stopped a hundred yards away. For a moment Walsingham stared up at the jagged rooftops outlined against the night sky and then pushed through the centre door as instructed. He found the pushlight which dimly illuminated the stairs curling away from him. There was no lift. Walsingham climbed steadily, pausing on the first and second landings for the light switch.

Number 35 faced him, as he came puffing to the third floor. He listened at the door for voices and heard nothing. His first knock was hesitant. There was no reply. He rapped again more forcefully.

Solomatin opened the door and said in Italian, ‘I’m glad you’re not late: come in.’

As Walsingham stepped forward, Leonov crossed the landing from the linking corridor entrance opposite. There was a shot no louder than the heavy closing of a door. The impact forced Walsingham across the room, arms outstretched. His body slid when it hit the floor so that one hand was almost touching Fantani’s.

‘Go on!’ said Leonov urgently.

Solomatin knelt down and edged a key into Walsingham’s pocket, pulling hurriedly back as soon as he had done it. Leonov tossed the gun down beside the body, and followed Solomatin out. They were through into the adjoining building and making for the rear fire escape when Wilson’s car stopped behind the observer team already in position.

24

Sir Alistair Wilson deferred to Jackson’s experience as a field operator. During the short drive from the embassy he briefed the supervisor and then held back while Jackson organized the surveillance teams. The director’s car, which was being used for control, was moved from the Via Salaria to a cul-de-sac opposite. Jackson reversed the vehicle into it and extinguished the lights.

‘How long?’ he asked the director.

‘Twenty minutes, according to Walsingham.’

Jackson quickly left the car, crossing to the apartment block and paced out a distance, checking to see if their vehicles were conspicuous. He dodged back between the traffic and sat heavily into the driving seat. ‘Good enough,’ he said.

‘Everybody understands?’

‘Perfectly. They’re to let him go in and then seal the place.’

The director stared across at the building. ‘Looks like a warren.’

‘Well chosen.’

Wilson grunted.

‘What happens if he doesn’t show up on time?’

‘We give it fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘And then go in.’

‘What do you think he’s doing here?’

‘Whatever it is, he’s the key. He’s got to be.’

Along the main highway in front of them traffic fireflied by in a continuous flicker of lights. In the cul-de-sac vehicles were parked in careless Rome fashion, half on and half off the pavement. There were bicycles secured to railings by chains.

‘How much damage did he really do?’

‘A lot,’ said Wilson. ‘The CIA director, as well as our own controller, was seized, for exchange with a spy of their own. It’s taken years to build up confidence with Washington again. Kalenin was supposed to be crossing into Vienna: the Americans had put in almost a hundred people on the ground and we matched them, man for man. It was obviously impractical to take them all back into Czechoslovakia. The Russians fingerprinted and photographed the bloody lot of them.’

‘Bastard.’

Wilson looked apprehensively to the man beside him. ‘I don’t want him hurt,’ he said. ‘Not until I can gauge the extent of the damage.’

‘We’ll wait,’ said Jackson.

Wilson tensed as the car stopped opposite but relaxed as a young couple got out, laughing and hugging. He massaged the joint of his stiffened leg. It wasn’t cold so there was no reason for it to ache.

Conscious of the movement, Jackson said from beside him. ‘Waiting always screws me up.’

‘We’ve been waiting a long time for this one,’ said Wilson.

Charlie had become engulfed in the rush hour on the outskirts of the city, stop-starting his way through the congestion. Impatiently he had tried short cuts, guessing the general direction, and become blocked by even worse jams. He’d fought against the irritation, knowing it was pointless, and submitted at last to the slow crawl.

It was seven thirty before he approached the centre of Rome and three stops before he found someone with sufficient English to explain the route. But once in the Via Salaria Charlie had little problem finding the number.

It was bad. Unprotected and carrying half a million pounds, he was having to walk into a bloody great building in which a hundred villains could be hiding, just waiting for his head to emerge around a stairwell. In the old days he’d have had twenty men already moving through the building disguised as cleaners, janitors and repair men. And another squad outside, for additional protection. Charlie scratched his nose. He’d buggered it up and the old days were gone for ever. He considered taking a tyre lever from the boot but quickly dismissed it; if there were to be an ambush, a tyre lever would be about as effective as spitting at a house fire.

Charlie checked the mirror until the traffic eased and then got out of the car, pulling the case behind him. Instinctively he looked both ways along the road, squinting to see into the parked vehicles; it looked safe enough, but in a place like this it was impossible to be sure without back-up.

The middle door, he remembered. He pushed gently against it, feeling it give at once beneath the pressure, and eased through into the darkness. He barked his knuckles against the time switch but was grateful for the light. Somewhere in the distance he heard a baby’s cry, long and protracted. Charlie realized he was sweating, the handle of the case slippery beneath his fingers. The light clicked off before he reached the first landing, so that he had to make the last few steps in darkness.

The baby’s cry was louder and he wondered why somebody didn’t do anything about it: the Italians were supposed to love kids. He found the switch again and continued cautiously upwards. Somewhere above a door opened and closed and he waited for footsteps but none came. The second landing was as empty as the first. Charlie lighted the way but didn’t begin the final climb. He put the case between his feet and wiped his hands along the sides of his trousers. The baby had stopped crying; he hadn’t been aware of its happening. There wasn’t a sound now in the whole building. Only Charlie’s laboured breathing. He saw the apartment the moment he pressed the third-floor switch. The door was ajar. He went past 35 and found the link corridor into the next building; it was deserted. He came back to the door, listening against it. And then pushed it wider, not attempting to enter. He saw Walsingham’s body first, on his face and spreadeagled, and then the hand of someone else.

Every nerve, every instinct, every memory of his basic training, screamed at Charlie not to go in. He did.

The Italian was staring glazed-eyed at the ceiling: there was a lot of blood on his chest where the artery had burst, and it was difficult to see the exact wound.

Charlie noticed a Gucci bag near a side table and was stretching towards it when he saw the gun, partially concealed beneath Walsingham’s body. He recognized it at once as a Russian weapon. There was a second of numbed shock then a voice behind him shouted, ‘Stay where you are!’

There were three men just inside the door, fanned out so they had him in a twenty-five-degree arc of crossfire. They were hunched in standard marksman position, legs bent, pistol arm fully extended, the other hand clamped to the wrist to minimize the recoil.

Behind the gunmen was an elderly, wisp-haired man. He said, ‘Any move, no matter how slight, and they’ll fire. Not to kill you; it’ll be into your legs, to cripple you.’

He waited, appearing to expect a response. Then he said, ‘We’ve got you, Charlie Muffin.’

The ambassador and Naire-Hamilton listened grave-faced for the intelligence director to finish the explanation and then Naire-Hamilton said, ‘It’s a nasty one. Very nasty indeed.’

‘What are we going to do?’ demanded Billington.

‘Recover as best we can,’ suggested the Permanent Under Secretary. To the ambassador he said, ‘I think you’d better contact the Italian government right away.’

25

The preparations had begun before their arrival, but men were still working when Charlie was led down the stairs into the main storeroom of the embassy basement. An area about twenty feet square had been cleared, the boxes and containers pushed against the far wall and stacked into a floor-to-ceiling barrier. Charlie expected the questioning to start at once, but he was pushed into an annex, below ground and without any windows. Against the far wall there was a cot with one blanket, and beside it a bucket to pee in. Henry Jackson followed Charlie into the cell and snapped his fingers.

‘Let’s have them,’ he said.

Charlie thought, fleetingly, of feigning ignorance but then dismissed it as pointless; everything would be pointless from now on. He bent, extracting the laces from his shoes, and handed them to the man, together with his tie and belt. Jackson pointed towards the bed and said, ‘Everything in your pockets on there.’

Methodically Charlie began unloading. There was a comb in his top pocket, passport and travellers’ cheques inside his jacket, his airline ticket with the baggage label still attached, a crumpled sponge of Italian paper money, a pen, the keys to the Battersea apartment, a driving licence and one neatly folded square of toilet paper.

‘Linings.’

Dutifully Charlie turned all the pockets inside out. He stood in front of the man, clutching his trousers and aware of the barely subdued hostility.

‘Watch.’

Charlie unstrapped it from his wrist.

‘Know what I’d like to do?’ said Jackson.

‘What?’

‘I’d like to kick the shit out of you.’

Charlie had been waiting for the beating. He tightened his body against the attack and the man sniggered.

‘The name’s Jackson,’ he said. ‘Remember it. I’m going to be the first.’

He scooped Charlie’s belongings into a plastic envelope and closed the door. There was only the sound of a single lock and Charlie didn’t think the woodwork looked particularly resistant. He dismissed the speculation as academic. He was not going anywhere any more.

The seizure at the apartment house and the bundled drive, with his hands manacled painfully behind him, had been too hurried for him to examine his situation with any detachment. But, alone in his rectangular box smelling of decayed, abandoned paper, Charlie confronted the realization that, after seven years of middle-of-the-night wakefulness and gut-heaving at casual glances, they’d got him. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness settled over him. The muscles in his thighs began jerking in involuntary spasms and he sat down quickly upon the cot, wrapping his arms around his legs. The man … what was his name? Jackson … Jackson had said there’d be a beating. Why not at once? Maybe the standard technique, complete solitude, to let the fear seep in, and make sure there was no sleep to complete the disorientation. Scalpalomine maybe. But why? That was standard procedure to break someone, to erode a false cover or deceit. They knew who he was. And what he’d done. He didn’t have a cover story to destroy: he had no one to protect.