The Company of Saints (23 page)

‘What a lot of trouble we took,' the lady said. ‘And it was here all the time. Well, monsieur, at least you've found out what it means.'

‘I have,' Lomax agreed. ‘And I feel very stupid to have taken up all your afternoon looking for something that was right under my nose. I do apologize.'

She had a cheering smile. She wasn't young by any means but there was a sweetness about her that made him want to ask her out for a drink just to make up for the trouble he had caused her. But he didn't. As he was leaving, she put her head a little on one side, like a thoughtful sparrow, and said, ‘Monsieur, there is one thing. Perhaps we didn't find Ma-Nang because it isn't Chinese? If it had been a recognized philosophy it would have been listed in our reference books.'

‘That had occurred to me, mademoiselle,' Lomax said quietly. ‘Maybe we couldn't find it because it doesn't mean anything at all?' He left her staring, rather puzzled, after him.

‘France has broken cover.' He read the decoded message slowly. ‘She reports threats and surveillance from outside. Request instructions for immediate solution to possible breakdown in our security.' There was always one, he thought angrily, one who slipped through the psychological screening, however thorough. And she had seemed to be the best – the one with the coollest nerve and a psychopathic hatred of her fellow human beings. A pity, and a nuisance. He didn't make up his mind in a hurry. He thought it out in relation to what had still to be accomplished. He brushed aside the question of who had approached France – it could be any one of the intelligence services involved. It didn't matter. What mattered was to stop them getting any closer to her. Or to anyone else. He wrote down a sentence on his pad, pressed the bell by his chair, and handed it to the aide who came into the room. ‘Have this coded and sent at once,' he said.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun rose high above the cool pine forest. He would go down to the river. Watching the gentle flow of the water eased the soul's discomfort. It was an old saying which, like so many things belonging to the past, turned out to be true.

Davina said, ‘We've put it through the computers and come up with nothing. There's no such institute listed and Ma-Nang simply doesn't make sense. It's gibberish.'

Humphrey looked gloomy. ‘A meditation centre with a phoney name – it's hardly important whether it's made up or not. Surely all we want to know is why Hélène Blond should go there, after Lomax had made contact.'

‘We won't know that till someone gets inside and sees the set-up,' Tim Johnson insisted. ‘And it can't be Lomax in case the girl's described him. It would be too much of a coincidence. He's sure she's a prime suspect …?' He left it as a part question, and Davina said firmly, ‘Definitely, and he's got a lot of experience. He says she's wrong, and that's good enough for me. God, if only we could hear from Modena!'

‘It'll take time,' Johnson said. ‘They've got to check out a large area in the Dolomites and the place is honeycombed with villages and ski resorts. When will Lomax call in again?'

‘He says he's going to check out the centre,' Davina answered.

‘Wouldn't it be better to turn the whole thing over to SEDECE? We are getting a bit hot, going it alone from now on,' Humphrey suggested.

Davina shrugged. ‘I can't call Colin off now,' she said. ‘He wants to follow it up and he's very experienced. If he finds out anything when he goes there, I'll tell him to pull out and we'll give what we've got to the delightful colonel. I doubt he'll be grateful.'

‘And Hélène Blond?' That was Tim Johnson.

‘They're welcome to her,' Davina said shortly. ‘I don't know how you both feel, but I think we're going to crack this one quite soon. And before any more damage is done.'

Humphrey stood up. He didn't look optimistic, but then he never did.

‘Let's hope you're right,' was all he said before he went out.

Johnson looked across at her. ‘I know he's senior to me,' he said, ‘but he's the gloomiest bugger I've ever met in my life. I don't know how you stand it.'

‘Quite easily,' Davina answered. ‘Because he's also one of the cleverest men I've ever met in my life. Gloomy or not, Tim, don't underestimate him. Do you want some coffee – I'm going to have some.'

‘I won't, thanks,' he said. ‘I've got a deskful of stuff waiting.'

Davina sipped the coffee that her secretary Phyllis brought her. She had been James White's long-time assistant, and she hadn't committed herself to working for his successor without a trial period. She was middle aged, highly competent, and knew more about what went on inside the house in Anne's Yard than anybody else.

Davina hadn't been in touch with White since her father's funeral, nor had she phoned Charlie at her boyfriend's flat to inquire how their mother was; she'd been completely absorbed in her work. And she realized that she hadn't thought of Tony Walden since she sent Colin Lomax out to Paris. He hadn't approached her. She was relieved, but surprised too. It wasn't like Walden to give up when he wanted something. Perhaps he was busy too, buying off his Soviet blackmailers. The thought was as painful as it was nauseous. How could he have done it? Even to save his business. How could he have so lacked any moral standard as to try and juggle with her on one hand and Borisov on the other? And imagined he would succeed.…

She put the coffee down. It tasted bitter. If he had been a fool, then so had she, with as little judgement as Walden. She had been deluded by the dash and fizzle of his personality, attracted by a sexual magnetism. He was dynamic, unusual, intensely male, but he belonged at heart to the world of the hard sell. He traded in illusions and the exploitation of human gullibility and greed. He hadn't escaped untainted himself. There were many happy, tender aspects to their time together, and she couldn't yet dismiss them. Remembering them hurt, and would for a very long time. She turned back with relief to her day's itinerary.

Lomax telephoned the number given in the telephone directory. It didn't ring for long. He stammered in deliberately halting French. There was no help from the woman who answered. He was looking for a place to study meditation, he explained, making a lot of mistakes on purpose. Were they Transcendental or Zen?

‘We teach the method of Ma-Nang,' a female voice replied. It didn't sound French. Too high-pitched, too careful to speak clearly.

Lomax went on. ‘I suffer from tension,' he explained. ‘I get very strung up.'

‘You should see your doctor,' she tinkled back at him.

‘I have,' he said. ‘I've tried Western methods. They don't work. Can I come and see you? Maybe you can help me?'

There was a pause. ‘We are not medical,' she said. ‘We deal in spiritual peace and inward knowledge. Wait a moment, please.' She had gone away to ask. Lomax waited, counting the minutes. ‘I am sorry.' The tone was shrill. ‘We cannot help you. We are closing for the summer.' The line went dead.

Lomax put back the receiver. ‘Like hell you are,' he said. He had phoned from a public booth. He came out into the sunshine and lit a cigarette. No genuine school of meditation turned a stranger away, particularly when asked for help. Vast fortunes had been made by institutions catering for the kind of neurotic he had made himself out to be. From India to the Far East, the cult of healing through meditation attracted thousands who couldn't come to terms with the tensions of modern life. But Ma-Nang didn't encourage the seeker after truth and inner light. Lomax wondered exactly what it did welcome.

He started walking, taking his time, playing with ideas as he idled along the sunny streets on the way to the Lycée. It was later than Lomax realized. The students were coming out. He held back, waiting to see if she was ahead of him. Suddenly he spotted her brisk walk, the head held rather low. She was wearing the Robin Hood ankle boots that he thought ruined even the sexiest girl's legs. Striding along, not lingering with the others to gossip and pair off on the way home. A loner. Full of inner knowledge and spiritual peace. And then he saw the car. He knew by the speed at which it was being driven close to the pavement that it wasn't part of the early evening traffic. Too fast, too close to the pedestrians. And without a second's further thought, he started to run towards the girl.

It was the day before his wedding. ‘Italy' was getting ready for the family celebration dinner. His mother had been cooking, and every relative in the village had contributed. They would all sit down to a huge meal with unlimited local wine, and every uncle, aunt, cousin and child would wish him happiness. He was in love, which made the marriage good. She was a girl he had grown up with – a red-head with extensive freckles and a bright smile. There was Austrian blood in her, as with many families in the area. Her father owned a big vineyard and ran the grocery shop. Everybody was happy about the wedding. The village was turning out for them, and they would have a procession to the church, headed by the local band. It would be a great day.

He whistled as he helped bring in the big flasks of wine. It was hot. He wore only a sweat shirt above his denims and his feet slapped on the stone floor in espadrilles. He knew he was a well-set-up man, capable of making his bride happy and giving her children. They'd be comfortable, with a secure future when her father died. Luckily, she was the only child. The business and the vineyard would go to her. Life was good. He'd settle down and follow the pattern of his family and their forebears for the last five hundred years. He'd die and be buried in the village churchyard with a headstone listing his name and age. A respectable bourgeois living his life out in the mountain village. Except for a trip to Venice and a moment of hidden glory that must stay hidden.

They wouldn't carve that on his tombstone, but he would die knowing he wasn't just an ordinary man. He had his moment of immortality, of super power, when he killed. It had cleansed him of his hate and frustrations. He could live normally now, a bomb that had exploded and was harmless.

His sister came to the door and called him. ‘Someone asking for you – no, he didn't say. I've never seen him before.'

He set down the last of the heavy flasks, wiped his hands on his trousers and went outside. It was a man in motorcycle leathers, wearing a heavy helmet with a black shield. He pushed it up and Italy saw a face he didn't recognize. He heard his name and said, ‘Yes?' The man came towards him. ‘Italy' waited, wondering what he wanted, why he knew him. A blow struck him once, then twice between the ribs. The knife was thin and sharp, shaped like the deadly stiletto used by assassins in Italy four hundred years before. It pierced his heart and killed him before he could do more than grunt. Inside the house his sister heard the sound of a motorcycle stutter into life, then roar away. There was a long pause while she went on with her work. After a time she called out her brother's name. There was no answer. She didn't worry, and finished making the pasta.

The report of the murder reached Modena's team of investigators. They were working through the district forty miles west of the incident. One of them decided to drive up to the place and make some inquiries. By the end of the next day he was back, with a photograph. It showed a boy still in his teens, smiling against the sunshine, his arms round a laughing girl. Taken three years ago, when he and his family were at a local wedding. The girl was to be his wife that day. So sad, everyone said. His parents were desolate, his mother sedated, lying in a darkened room. The whole village was in mourning, full of police making inquiries. But it was a motiveless killing. There had been urban gangs of motorcyclists attacking women in the larger towns, and two robberies had been reported. Modena's man wired the photograph back to Rome. He did so because one of the people he questioned said that the murdered man had been on holiday on the Adriatic at the time when Henry Franklyn was assassinated. They only remembered this in case he had somehow met his attacker when he was away from home.

When the report and the photograph arrived in Modena's office he took it to the women's prison. Elsa Valdorini was brought to see him. The moment he saw her face when she looked at the picture, he knew they had lost their only lead. ‘That's him,' she said. ‘Have you arrested him?'

‘No,' he said. ‘He was stabbed to death yesterday morning.'

‘Oh.' Her eyes didn't stay on his face. They darted away.

‘Elsa,' Modena said. ‘Do you know who did it?'

She shook her head. ‘No,' she said. ‘But I'm glad I'm safe in here.'

‘Don't be too glad. Without this man there can't be a deal. Unless you tell me the other things you're holding back,' Modena said slowly.

Lomax launched himself at her as the car swerved viciously to the right, and mounted the pavement. His body collided with hers, knocking them several feet to the ground. There was a shattering crash and terrible screams. Lomax lay for a moment on top of the girl. She was partly knocked out and he was badly winded. The car had struck a group of people waiting by a pedestrian crossing.

Grimacing, Lomax picked himself up and got his breath back. A few yards away the scene looked like a battlefield. There were more screams, hysterical and meaningless, and the sound of the car revving, reversing away from the sprawl of bodies.

Lomax lifted Hélène Blond to her feet. She was dazed and stumbling. Then she started to scream too as she saw what had happened. The car had got clear and was speeding away, tyres screeching as it cornered and vanished. Lomax didn't waste any time. He didn't go to the injured – enough people were already crowding round, and he could see that at least two were dead. He grabbed hold of the girl. His French had deserted him.

‘You speak English? Do you?' He shook her. She nodded in a daze. ‘We've got to get out of here,' he said. ‘Come on, walk. You're not hurt, are you?'