Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (9 page)

10

Igor Solomatin arrived early at Doney’s, wanting a pavement table from which he could see in both directions along the Via Veneto: he had people placed to guarantee that the Italian arrived alone, but still wanted personally to be sure. The evening promenade swirled back and forth in front of him. A parade of peacocks, thought the Russian. It wasn’t criticism. The reverse, in fact. Solomatin knew he’d miss it. He’d miss the svelte, fur-coated women who always seemed to favour beige, and immaculate men whose shoes were always polished and who didn’t look effeminate carrying wrist bags. And being able to sit outside cafés like now, and have waiters appear content to serve him instead of enduring the belligerent truculence of the steam-filled caverns of Moscow. And the clothes. Solomatin did not have the bulky Russian heaviness: he’d been chosen for the posting because the slightness, black hair and black eyes fitted easily into the Latin surroundings. Reverting to the square-shouldered, trouser-flapping creations of Moscow would be one of the small regrets he’d have. But very small. The Russian capital was where the promotion was: and Solomatin knew his promotion was inevitable after what was going to happen here. He’d been extremely fortunate.

Solomatin monitored the approach and checked the safety signals of his ground men before waving to the Italian whom he had cultivated for the past six months. Emilio Fantani was no longer the male prostitute he had been when he first arrived in Rome, but he still swayed between the tables with hip-swivelling suggestiveness. Solomatin noticed the eyes of several interested men as well as hopeful women follow the movement. Although he admired them, the clothes were too gaudy for Solomatin, silk floral shirt, black trousers and chamois jacket so thin as to be almost transparent, slung casually across the Italian’s shoulders. Fantani had a jangle of gold bracelets on either wrist, in addition to the Cartier watch, and there was gold, too, circling his throat. He was a thin, wiry man, never appearing properly relaxed, with eyes that flickered constantly. Solomatin had never decided if he were seeking danger or prey.

When he reached the table, Fantani seemed out of breath, which Solomatin knew to be an affectation. ‘I’ve kept you. Forgive me,’ he said.

‘I was early.’ Solomatin always spoke carefully when addressing Fantani, not because of any problem with his vocabulary, which was excellent, but because of his accent. Fantani had been born in a peasant hut in Calabria, one of the poorest regions in Italy, but had lived off his wits in Rome since he was fourteen. He had a street-wise intelligence that was often disconcerting. Shortly after they met, Fantani had suddenly questioned Solomatin’s pronunciation and queried outright whether he was Italian. Solomatin had talked of his birth in Tarvisio, on the Austrian border and of being brought up bi-lingually. Fantani appeared to accept it but at the time it frightened the Russian.

They shook hands and Fantani said, ‘I was pleased to get your call.’

With every reason, thought Solomatin. It had been a careful softening-up period to convince Fantani he was being considered for graduation from cat burglar to organized crime. They had provided the man with four perfect robberies, with alarm systems and house plans and safe combinations that had taken the KGB squad months to assemble.

‘It’s big,’ said Solomatin. ‘I wanted to get everything right.’

A waiter came over and Fantani quickly ordered an Americano, impatient with the interruption.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Jewellery.’

‘Where?’

‘The British ambassador has a villa at Ostia. It’s in the safe there.’

Fantani’s face creased. ‘That’s not just a robbery,’ he said. ‘That’s political.’

More than you think, thought Solomatin. He said, ‘You’re not scared?’

‘The security will be strong.’

‘I’ve got all the details.’

‘It’ll be difficult to fence.’

‘It’ll be impossible,’ said Solomatin. ‘More than half is antique. It would be identified at once.’

Fantani stopped with the drink halfway to his lips. ‘What’s the point of stealing what we can’t get rid of?’

‘We’re going to sell it back.’

‘To the ambassador?’

Solomatin patiently shook his head. ‘To the insurers. It’s a common practice. The police don’t like it, but the insurers do. It’s cheaper to pay out a percentage than the full amount.’

‘We’ll do it together?’

‘I’ll tell you everything you have to do.’ Solomatin had been maintaining a note of the time and was ready when Vasily Leonov edged onto a table three places away. It was unnecessary but Leonov had insisted upon using the meeting to identify his victim. The assassin showed no recognition. Within minutes of being seated, his concentration was entirely upon Fantani. Solomatin was too highly trained to show any outward reaction, but he felt an inner clutch of coldness: it was like watching a snake manoeuvre itself to strike at some tethered, helpless animal.

‘How much information have you got?’ said Fantani.

‘Everything. Perimeter protection, alarm systems, safe location. The lot.’

‘It sounds good.’

‘It is.’

‘When do I see it?’

Leonov had said he only wanted a few moments. ‘Now,’ said Solomatin.

Fantani’s apartment overlooked the Piazza del Popolo, a garish, harsh place of over-bright lighting, steel-framed furniture, see-through glass tables and black and white decor – an amalgam of a dozen film sets. Curtains were opened and closed from a central, electrically controlled panel, which also operated a television and stereo installation positioned like neat birds’ nests in a lattice of tubular metal. It was the first time Solomatin had been there and Fantani was anxious to impress.

‘A drink …?’ He hesitated, gesturing towards a stone jar full of thickly rolled cigarettes. ‘… or something else?’

‘Whisky,’ said Solomatin. If he got the promotion he expected on his return to Moscow, he’d be able to buy Scotch at the concessionary stores: like the clothes, it was something he had come to enjoy.

Solomatin carried with him a slim document case. From it he took the information he had promised in the café, setting it out on one of the glass-topped tables.

‘This is the big one, Emilio.’

‘I’ve been waiting a long time.’

‘It’s got to work.’

‘It will.’ The assurance was too quick, too eager to please.

‘Let’s go through it.’

It took a long time, because Solomatin was aware his future was dependent upon it and was therefore determined there would not be any misunderstanding. He made the Italian study the perimeter protection, recite it back to him to guarantee it was memorized, and then study the plan of the villa and draw it himself, so that he would know the location of every room. Having established the design in Fantani’s mind, the Russian insisted he itemize the entry points and mark upon his drawing the burglar protection. The final test was to recite the combination of the safe. It was fifteen minutes before Fantani got the numbering and dial changes correct; he was sweating and most of the bombastic composure was gone. Solomatin gathered up his own copies and returned them to the document case; if anything went wrong – which he was sure it couldn’t – the only evidence would be in the Italian’s own handwriting.

‘It won’t be easy,’ Fantani was under no delusions. ‘But there’s a lot here. When do you want me to do it?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

There was an almost imperceptible intake of breath. Then Fantani grinned in agreement. Solomatin remembered the way Leonov had looked at the man in the café and felt a sudden surge of pity. It was brief but it annoyed him; there wasn’t any place for stupidity like that.

It was past midnight before Solomatin returned to his own apartment on the Via Mecanate. He put on the lights in a prepared sequence and sat down to wait. Leonov arrived after thirty minutes.

‘Tomorrow night?’ asked Leonov.

‘Yes.’

‘Sure he can do it?’

‘We’ve tested him on four other burglaries; he’s good.’

‘He’s flashy,’ said Leonov. ‘Is he homosexual?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Don’t like homosexuals,’ said Leonov.

From their protracted observation, the Russians knew Charlie Muffin lived alone and there was no danger of sudden discovery. Nevertheless they were careful breaking into the Battersea flat, positioning lookouts in the corridor as well as the entrance to the block. Three men actually entered the apartment. Together with material that had been sent from Moscow, they carried an extensive range of workmen’s tools; one had a small, battery-operated vacuum cleaner, to take the mess away with them afterwards. When they left, they removed the listening device that had been implanted in the telephone.

11

The table in the dressing room was set with a damask cloth and laid with glasses, ice bucket, bottles and water jug. It was within reaching distance of the chaise longue upon which Lady Billington lay, goblet in hand. ‘Pell and Mell didn’t like it,’ she said.

‘What?’ said Charlie.

‘The cats. They spend all their time with me. They’re locked up with Jane and they don’t like it.’

Charlie didn’t imagine that Jane Williams would like it much either. He carried his drink to the bureau. He knelt before it, released the securing bolt and eased sideways the left-hand pedestal leg. The face of the floor-mounted safe was about two feet in diameter, the combination dial snug in the centre.

‘Hector used to suffer from allergies,’ said Lady Billington. ‘Took a course of injections for it once.’

‘I tried,’ said Charlie. ‘It didn’t work. Have I your permission to open the safe?’

‘Do you need it?’

‘It seems so.’

‘Go ahead.’

Charlie huddled over the insurance guide to the safe combination, turning the numerals into position. At the final click he didn’t lift the lid at once, but felt carefully beneath. ‘There isn’t a breaker alarm,’ he said.

Lady Billington was leaning forwards towards the table. ‘Should there be?’

‘It’s not listed,’ admitted Charlie. ‘But I would have expected one.’

‘Better ask Hector,’ she said. ‘How’s your drink?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

Charlie lifted the covering upon a miniature cavern carved out below. The cleverness of the concealment denied the normal facilities of shelves and the boxes were stacked one on top of the other. Charlie lifted them out, first to the mouth of the safe and then across the room to arrange before Lady Billington. Automatically he separated the newer-looking containers from the old. Seeing the division she said, ‘There’s a lot of heirlooms.’

‘I’ve read the policy,’ said Charlie.

‘Don’t wear the old stuff much,’ she confessed. ‘Most of it is too big. I feel like a shire horse decorated for the country fair.’

‘It’s an awful lot of brass,’ said Charlie, flattening the noun for the north-country meaning. She laughed.

It was a dazzling kaleidoscope of wealth, the red of rubies and iced white of diamonds, the dull white of pearls and the greens and blues of emeralds and sapphires. Briefly he was reminded of the bridge lights over the Thames on those stumbling nights towards Battersea.

‘Better have a drink before we start,’ suggested Lady Billington.

‘Why not?’ said Charlie. It didn’t seem he was alone in drinking when he was bored. Her appearance wasn’t affected yet; perhaps it had only just started.

‘Will I have to do this every year?’ The hiss was more obvious when she spoke.

‘Probably,’ said Charlie.

‘How do you want to do it?’

‘As it comes, I suppose.’

‘Cheers,’ she said.

‘Cheers.’

Charlie might once have argued it impossible for it to be tedious physically to handle one and a half million pounds’ worth of jewellery, but it was. He had to locate on his list whatever Lady Billington produced to compare with the accompanying photograph and description, check the setting and stone content and then restore it to the safe to avoid confusion with what remained. Quickly all awareness of what he was touching disappeared. Cosmetic surgeons doing breast operations probably felt the same way.

Lady Billington treated the business with the same casual detachment. After an hour she said, ‘When Hector said this was legally necessary I thought it was a good idea. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘It’s best to be careful,’ said Charlie. She stretched her legs out along the chaise longue, so he eased himself onto the dressing-table stool, flexing the cramp from his legs. Pieces of fluff from the carpet speckled his trousers.

‘Quite frankly I couldn’t give a damn,’ she said. ‘Surprised?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

‘Right that you should be,’ she said. ‘Just as I should be surprised at the poor little rich girl feeling.’

The confessional of gin, thought Charlie. It was tenuous but Charlie decided there was a similarity between this woman and the one he had left in bed at the hotel. Lady Billington sought her escape in a bottle and Clarissa in bed. He felt a twitch of anger towards both of them.

Lady Billington stirred a box with her feet; a rope of pearls, Charlie knew.

‘Know what I think sometimes when I’m putting these things on?’

‘What?’

‘How many empty bellies they could fill.’

She was draining bottles and putting messages inside, he thought. ‘Why don’t you give them away then? Save this sort of thing every year.’

She smiled wearily. ‘All the old stuff is in family trust anyway,’ she said. ‘And there is already a charity established: something to do with bringing Africans to England to train them to be agronomists. My father set it up.’

‘Aren’t there organizations you could become involved with?’

‘International committees flying first class to New York or Geneva and eating six-course banquets and agreeing how beastly it is for people to starve.’

He’d been wrong about Lady Billington. She was a woman brim full of sadness. ‘It’s an uneven world,’ agreed Charlie.

‘That’s trite,’ she said.

‘But true.’

Lady Billington added unsteadily to her glass, spilling some onto the cloth so that a damp grey stain spread across it. ‘“From each according to his abilities … to each according to his needs,”’ she quoted indistinctly.