The Company of Saints (4 page)

‘But it has to be the Russians,' Walden said.

Johnson glanced at Davina.

She answered the question he hadn't asked. ‘It's all right,' she said. ‘You can talk in front of Tony. This is only routine stuff. Later,' she reached out and touched his hand, ‘we'll have to go into a huddle. When our Italian friend arrives.'

The house on the Street of the Assassins had a small television set. The man whose name was Italy ate his meal of
spaghetti alle vongole
sitting in front of the screen. He listened to the commentators, saw replays of the scene on the Grand Canal, watched the night cameras relaying the continued activity in the area. There was a young woman in the house; she had opened the door and given him a kiss as soon as he was inside. ‘Congratulations,' was all she said.

It was a small, very dark house, low-ceilinged, with narrow windows. It belonged to a Venetian antique dealer who relished the historical significance of his address and enjoyed himself filling the sinister little building with early furniture and some rare Renaissance bronzes whose owners didn't know what they were selling. His shop was closed for renovations; part of the lower floor showed subsidence caused by the waters of the canal. He had moved his stock upstairs, called in the builders and gone off on a buying expedition with his wife to Rome. His daughter had stayed behind.

The girl came and stood behind his chair, watching the screen in silence. Messages of outrage were coming in from world leaders. The Pope's image appeared, and the girl laughed. ‘You've made quite a stir, Italy.'

The man looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Shut up,' he said.

The report returned to the Grand Canal; there was nothing new to tell the audience. The taxi boat had not been found. He leaned forward and switched the television off. He felt the girl's excitement coming at him like electric waves. Some of the women were like that. Death gave them an orgasm. As soon as someone was killed they wanted to fuck. He didn't feel like it. ‘I'm going to bed,' he said. ‘And not with you. So cool off.'

She shrugged. She was slim, dark-eyed, with the olive skin of the true Venetian. Somewhere, centuries back, there had been a Moor in the bed of a Valdorini. ‘Suit yourself,' she said. A pity. She liked men with his colouring. But he might feel different tomorrow. Then so might she.

She took the tray away and washed the dishes by hand. She had been brought up to be economical. They didn't use the machine unless it was full. By 11.30 the lights were out and the house was a blind face in the crumbling wall of ancient houses. The water ran close to the edge of the narrow street outside, and a sinister humped bridge, too narrow to cross except in single file, spanned the sluggish flow. And in that flow, carried by the unseen tides that crept in from the sea, floated the remains of the boat and the people who had died that morning.

Alfredo Modena was in his sixties. He was a quiet, rather dour man who could have been an academic. He spoke excellent English, also German and French. He joined Davina and Johnson at just before midnight. Walden had excused himself after dinner.

‘I'm sorry to be so late,' Modena said. ‘My headquarters is like a madhouse. There are times when I'd like to shoot every media man on sight!'

‘I don't envy you,' Davina said. ‘The last thing you need in a situation like this is outsiders getting in the way.' Be tactful, Humphrey had advised on the telephone. You have a unique opportunity to get in on the investigation, but remember how touchy the Italians are.… She decided to be tactful, as he'd said. ‘Signor Modena, I hope you don't put me in that category. As I happened to be practically on the spot and staying in the same hotel, I felt you'd understand my request for information.' He wasn't going to respond. She saw the resentment in his eyes as he looked at her.

‘The United States is principally involved,' he said. ‘I am expecting a planeload of their people. I have to give them priority as far as any information is concerned. All I can make available to you, Signorina Graham, are the preliminary reports.' He handed a thin file to Davina. ‘There's nothing much there. We're waiting for the forensic reports and laboratory tests. Then we'll have a clearer picture of what happened. But it's definitely murder. The petrol tank exploded, but only after a primary explosion of great force set it off.'

‘That would be pretty obvious to anyone who saw the boat go up,' Davina said. ‘Nobody suggested it was an accident at our end.'

‘But accidents occur.' Modena's tone was sharp. ‘And not only in Italy.'

Prunehead was right, Johnson said to himself. They certainly don't like outside interference.

Davina said, ‘What most concerns us, Signor Modena, is whether this is an Italian organization or an international one. What is your view?'

‘Until I have studied all the reports and collated all my facts, Signorina, I don't have a view.' He detested abrasive, abrupt women who squared up to men as equals. But then he was old fashioned. The English had made a woman head of their government. It wouldn't happen in Italy.

‘But you must have a private opinion.' Tim Johnson decided to take it up. ‘Is it the Red Brigades?'

Modena shrugged. ‘It could be. It could be the Dutch Red Hand, or what's left of the Baader–Meinhof coming back into the picture. Or the PLO. After all, Franklyn was a Jew.'

‘But not a Zionist,' Davina said. She glanced quickly at Johnson. We're wasting our time, the signal said. Let's cut it short.…

She stood up. ‘Thank you for coming to see us. Mr Johnson will be here for the next few days and is anxious to consult with you. I'll be on my way to London tomorrow. As I said, I don't envy you. Especially when the CIA arrives in force.'

There was anger in his voice. ‘They are already blaming us for lack of protection. I believe my government will point out that you can't protect someone unless you know he's in your country. I can't think how our American colleagues could have taken such a risk with a public figure.'

‘Perhaps they thought it was less of a risk than letting other people know,' Davina answered. ‘We mustn't keep you. Good night, Signor Modena. I hope you catch whoever did it.'

He shook her hand without enthusiasm. ‘I shall do my best. Good night.'

When he had gone, Johnson said, ‘That was below the belt, wasn't it, Miss Graham? He didn't like that last crack at all.'

‘It happens to be true,' she said. ‘The country's so bloody riddled with Mafia and corruption of every kind that nobody would trust them with anything. But there wasn't any reason why Franklyn shouldn't take a private holiday with his daughter, using another name. Whoever got him has contacts at the highest level. Which rather answers my question, don't you think?'

‘Borisov,' Johnson nodded. ‘If they had a go at the Pope through a Bulgarian terrorist outlet, why not this? Why not?'

‘He's very good at getting people killed,' Davina said quietly.

It was a long time ago, Johnson remembered, but she hadn't forgotten. Her husband had been murdered in Australia. Igor Borisov had planned the assassination. He was a junior officer then; now he was the head of the KGB, exact counterpart to Davina Graham. What would happen, he wondered, if those two ever met?

‘I don't think we'll get much help from their lab people,' Tim said after a pause. ‘Or the forensic. I don't think Secura's going to share anything with anyone.'

‘They aren't.' Davina lit a cigarette. She had tried to give up the habit, nagged by Walden; her resolution was forgotten now. ‘And if they don't like us asking questions, I wish the buggers joy when the CIA gets here.'

Johnson paused by the door. ‘Are you going back tomorrow?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘It's supposed to be our holiday. I'll have to see.'

He went down the corridor, humming the gondoliers' sugary serenade. ‘O Sole Mio'. She didn't miss a trick and she didn't give a damn what people thought. He admired her for it, but he didn't find it attractive.

Walden was sitting up reading when Davina came in. ‘How did it go, darling?' There was no resentment at being left out, thank God. No macho nonsense. He understood the job and its demands upon them both. She went over and kissed him gratefully.

‘You are a love,' she said. ‘Sorry I was so long. I needn't have bothered, actually.'

‘Why not?' He put his book aside. He knew that stubborn look and the set of her chin.

‘The Italians aren't going to give us anything,' she said flatly. ‘I can see why, of course, but it doesn't make it any easier in a case like this. They're acutely embarrassed and on the defensive. They'll protect their own reputation even if it means letting the killers off the hook. I could have hit that bastard tonight. All he was thinking of was his own side!'

‘Wouldn't that be true if it had happened in Britain?' Walden asked her.

Davina looked quickly at him. ‘You have a talent for saying the bloodiest things, don't you? Yes, of course it would, but not if I could help it. If this is what I think it is, there's no room for national pride or inter-service rivalries. We're just cutting our own throats in the West if we don't work together.'

‘What do you think it is, or can't you tell me?'

She undressed and got into bed beside him. ‘I think we're at the start of a chain of assassinations,' she said after a moment. ‘I don't know why I think so, but I do. I think Borisov is behind it, but it'll be impossible to prove.'

‘But what's his motive?' Walden asked her.

‘I don't know,' Davina admitted. ‘And I won't know till a pattern starts emerging. And that means another murder.'

Italy had done well. It was interesting to consider, in the words of the Christian Bible, how many were called to do his kind of work, but how few chosen. A very special talent was needed to kill in this way. Take away the profit motive – there was no shortage of mercenaries – and substitute an ideal with which the killer could make his impulses respectable, and there was a deadly weapon in the right hands.

There was a spectacular view from his window. He never tired of looking out over the changing skies, the variety of sunsets. And he liked the tranquillity of being alone and able to think. The vagaries of human nature concerned him more and more; he had long ago learned to despise it and to capitalize upon its weaknesses.

Whoever had said that man was made in God's image had a poor opinion of God. But God was a myth, one among many which mankind needed to combat the fear of death and nothingness. In the East they had made a virtue of nothingness – pretending that the darkness and the worms were the ultimate form of human achievement. He had made a study of comparative religion; it amused him to test them intellectually. And from that study and the need to utilize human psychology, he had evolved the organization which he called the Company of Saints. It amused him to equate his band of death-dealing disciples with the great host of Christian souls grouped round the throne of God in Majesty. There was a magnificent canvas in the Hermitage depicting the Last Judgement with all the scope and imagery of the Italian Renaissance. The blessed chanted praises round the dispenser of final justice, while the wicked were sucked into a fiery hell. He had reversed the roles. Italy had done well, he said again. It was a perfect operation, meticulously planned and executed with maximum impact. One less enemy, and all the repercussions from his death would benefit him. He turned away from his contemplation by the window.

It was time he took up the other burdens of his public life.

2

The weather was so mild that the Grahams were having breakfast on the terrace. Marchwood faced south, so that the front of the old house was bathed in sunlight.

The front terrace was Captain Graham's innovation; he liked to read the morning papers there and, when it was warm enough, to enjoy breakfast overlooking the splendid garden at the front. He was reading
The Times
, exclaiming as he did so. Davina's mother usually made pleasant noises during this ritual and thought about her flowers. But not that morning. The dreadful murder of the American politician had upset them both. Captain Graham was reading excerpts aloud to her, and instead of thinking about spraying the roses, Betty Graham was paying full attention.

‘And that poor daughter,' she said. ‘Only nineteen – it's unthinkable what people will do these days!'

‘They're the scum of the earth,' her husband retorted. He put the paper down. ‘Where's Charlie?' He loved having his favourite child living at home and his grandson was a marvellous bonus. He was always asking where she was, or wandering off to find the boy. His wife thought it was touching and sweet. It had never entered her head to be jealous of his love for their beautiful daughter. She pitied Davina because she had minded being second-best so much.

‘I think she's coming now,' she said. ‘I can hear Fergie.' They had engaged a local girl to help look after the little boy. Fergus Graham felt it took rather too much out of Charlie. He often said to his wife that she had never quite recovered from the awful shock of two years ago.

‘Darling,' Mrs Graham said, ‘the coffee's still hot. I'll make you some more toast.'

Charlie Kidson thanked her with a kiss. Her father beamed. Really she was a lovely girl, and still so young-looking. Nobody would have given her a day more than, say, twenty-eight. Not thirty-seven, not three years from forty. That abundant red hair, the too thin figure, the girlish laugh. Not heard so often now, not since she found out about her husband. It grieved him to think that she was sad. And she wouldn't apply for a divorce. He couldn't understand it. It wasn't like Charlie to sit still and let life pass her by.

‘Pat's going to take the Monster for a walk,' Charlie said. She referred to her son by his nickname; it rather shocked some people who didn't realize that she adored him. She picked up the paper and glanced at the headlines. They had watched the late news together the night before. She had gone up to bed rather abruptly, her parents thought.