The End Game (18 page)

“It really is a fascinating country,” said Captain Hobart.
“Ex Africa semper aliquid nova.
That’s what I learned at school, and it’s true. You could find anything there, from diamonds to dinosaurs. A pity we’ve given it all back to the Africans. It’s wasted on them.”

Another thing David noticed, and it gave him a cold and uncomfortable idea of what he was up against, was that his watchers seemed to expect cooperation from the authorities. On one occasion, when a car which had followed him from the hotel to a restaurant had experienced some difficulty in parking, a patrolling
carabiniere
had peremptorily ordered another car to move.

As the six days of their stay went by, under hot sun and skies as blue as they are in cinquecento paintings, David could feel the meshes tightening round him. He thought, not for the first time, that he should have cut and run for it when he was in London. There would have been immediate trouble certainly; but it would have been better than this cat-and-mouse game, and he would have been in his own country, with the police on his side and not, at the best, neutral or, at the worst, against him.

He realised that Italy was, for the time being, a country in which the rule of law had ceased to mean very much. Criminals and terrorists had got hold of the wheels. A politician who opposed them could be maimed in front of his family. A judge who condemned a criminal might be signing his own death warrant. Over this dark abyss the tide of tourism flowed, unknowing and uncaring.

On the last evening Collings had, unexpectedly, asked David to come out with him for a drink. It was unexpected because it was, on this occasion, unnecessary. On this trip the black bag was innocent of any illicit cargo and would remain so. Of that David was certain. He wondered what Collings, who had been unusually silent, could have to say to him.

When it came, it was startling.

Collings, his elbows on the table and his muddy face close to David’s, said, “You know you won’t be allowed to come back with us tomorrow.”

“Who’ll stop me?”

“The police. That boy who looks after us on the fourth floor is going to say you propositioned him. When he turned you down, you pulled him into the bedroom and tried to rape him.”

“His word against mine. No court will believe him.”

“It won’t come to court. The men who take you away won’t be
carabinieri.
They’ll be in plain clothes. And they won’t take you to a police station. They’ll take you out to a farm. Somewhere quiet, outside the city, where they can work on you.”

David finished his drink and put the glass down slowly on the table. Then he said, “Perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re talking about.”

“You know bloody well what I’m talking about. Last time we were here you took something out of the pocket in that bag and put something different back.”

“For Christ’s sake,” said David, “stop talking like a bloody Dolgelly lawyer and say what you mean. You think that I removed six packets of high-quality heroin and substituted six similar packets of old-fashioned photographic developer. Then, when the Chevertons and their backers found out, you got stick. Because you were supposed to keep an eye on me and you fell down on the job. Right so far?”

Collings said sourly, “Put it any way round you like. It’s you who’s for it now, not me. They know you didn’t bring the stuff back to England, so it must be here. If you don’t hand it over, they’ll make you talk. And once they start, there’s no guarantee they’ll stop, even if you do talk.”

“I see,” said David. He was trying to speak normally, but his mouth was dry.

Collings said, with a curious note, almost of pleading, in his voice, “I don’t know what your game is, but if you’ve got as much sense as I think you have, you’ll back down and do it quick. You’re out of your depth. These people have got everything going for them. Police, politicians, the press, the lot. I’m telling you. If they came in now”— he looked at the door as he said it—“and picked you up, bundled you into a car, did whatever they wanted to you and dropped what was left of you into the river, do you think anyone would worry about it? With politicians blown up in their cars and policemen with their kneecaps shot off, you’d hardly rate a quarter column.”

While Collings had been talking, David had been thinking. He said, “Suppose you’re right. Suppose I did string along with them.”

“Hand over the stuff?”

“Yes. But it’s not all that easy. I haven’t got it with me. I left it with a friend. And I’m not having him involved. He’s got to live here.”

“Fair enough.”

“It’s the timing I’m thinking about. It’s in his office safe. The office doesn’t open before half past eight. Our coach leaves at nine and doesn’t hang about.”

This was true. The congestion in front of the hotel was such that it was only by concession that the Rayhome coach was allowed to stop there for five minutes while the tourists and their luggage got aboard.

“However, I think I can manage it, if you’ll settle up at the hotel and put my stuff on the coach.”

Collings said, “If you get there only at the last minute, the people you give the packet to won’t have time to examine it properly. They’re a suspicious lot of buggers. They won’t like it.”

“Agreed,” said David. “But don’t forget, we’re stopping that night at Como. They’ll have all evening to check it as thoroughly as they like. Believe me, I’m not going to try any funny stuff. Como’s still in Italy.”

Collings thought about it, turning it all ways round in his mind, trying to shake the tricks out of it. He had seen enough of David in the past few weeks to distrust him profoundly.

He said, “I don’t like it. They won’t like it, either.”

“It’s the way I’m going to do it.”

“How are you going to get to your friend without being followed?”

“I’ll manage,” said David.

Next morning he was dressed and ready and out of his room by eight o’clock. He sidestepped the sulky floor waiter, who seemed to want to say something to him, got into the lift and went down to the ground floor. As soon as he arrived, without getting out he pressed the button again and went up to the second floor. The corridor was empty, as also was the service room. David hooked down one of the long, white overalls which was the staff working dress, carried it to the service staircase and put it on as he was going down to ground-floor level. At the foot of the staircase a short corridor led to a side door opening on the alley.

Tuesdays and Fridays, as he knew, having studied the workings of the hotel, were rubbish collection days. There were six cans just inside the door. David hoisted one of them on to his left shoulder so that it hid his face, pushed open the door and went out swinging to the right and away from the watcher as he did so.

As soon as he was round the corner he put down the can, removed his white coat, stuffed it into the can, shut the lid and walked off down the street. Two girls who were passing observed his actions with surprise. David walked quickly away and out into the main street beyond.

His first call was at a shop he had already marked down, which sold all manner of stationery and office gadgets. Here he bought a stout padded envelope of the type used by publishers for the dispatch of books, a roll of reinforced tape, a stapler and six packets of envelopes. With these he retired to a cafe across the way and ordered breakfast. He had a feeling that it was going to be a long day and he saw no reason to start it starving.

When he had finished eating he got out his purchases. The six packets of smaller envelopes went into the large padded envelope, the open end of which he fastened with three separate strips of tape. He then stapled each piece of tape into position with four staples. When he had finished, he paid for his breakfast and departed, leaving the stapler and tape on a ledge under the table and putting the package inside the front of his jacket.

A quick walk through side streets took him to the mouth of the alleyway opposite the hotel and on the other side of the road. The time was a few minutes past nine o’clock. David peered round the corner.

The coach was there, the last of the luggage was being put aboard and Collings was standing beside the driver’s seat looking worried. There were two men on the pavement in front of the hotel. Collings went across and had a word with them. The traffic policeman blew his whistle and waved to the coach. Collings came back and stood by the open door, looking up and down the street.

“Now for it, boyo,” said David.

He sprinted down the alley, jumped into the coach and took his seat. Collings climbed in after him.

“It’s all right,” said David. “Off you go.”

The policeman whistled again urgently.

David took the envelope out from under his coat, opened the black bag which was by the driver’s seat and put it in as the coach moved off.

They stopped for lunch outside Bologna. David had time for a word with Collings. He said, “Sorry I was late. My friend didn’t turn up until twenty to nine. I had to run for it.”

Collings said, “Tell you the truth, I thought you’d bolted.”

“I may be a fool, but I’m not such a bloody fool as that,” said David. “Everything’s all right now. The stuff’s in that envelope. Nothing to worry about.”

This was not true. There was still a good deal to worry about. But the situation had improved. He had had two reasons for suggesting a handover at Como. The first was that the opposition, although no doubt they would be there in sufficient strength, would be less well organised than in Florence. The second was that he was a great reader of escape stories. He knew that the only four prisoners of war who had got out of Italy before the Italian armistice had all gone the same way. By train to Como, then five miles up the road to Chiasso, then through the wire about a mile above Chiasso Station and so into Switzerland. He reckoned that, if he could get clear of the hotel, he could be in Switzerland in a couple of hours.

The thought kept him cheerful through the hot hours of the early afternoon. Most of the passengers were torpid and half of them were asleep. David had moved to the back of the coach to have a gossip with Captain Hobart.

They were ten kilometres past Piacenza when he realised that his plans had gone wrong.

The coach braked to a halt with a suddenness which made the passengers sit up. There was a barricade across the road, with an official-looking car beside it. David, looking down the length of the coach, recognised one of the two men who were strolling towards them. He had a remarkable bush of hair and a deeply cleft chin.

“Some trouble?” said Captain Hobart.

“Looks like it,” said David. “I’d better go and see what it’s all about.” He opened the emergency door at the back of the coach and stepped out, shutting the door carefully behind him. Then he walked quickly back down the road, hidden by the bulk of the coach, jumped the ditch and found himself in a vineyard. This had been planted in the economical Italian fashion with vegetables sharing the beds with the vines, and it formed a useful screen. David got between two of the rows and started to run.

The slope of the field was downhill, and he was soon out of sight of the bus. The vineyard ended in a country road. Propped up, in the road, beside an opening in the hedge was a very old bicycle. David jumped on to it and pedalled off. As soon as he started he realised why the bicycle had been abandoned. Both the tyres were flat.

Though uncomfortable, it was still rideable, and he had bumped along the road on the rims of the wheels for about a quarter of a mile when he realised that it was leading him back towards the main road. He had noticed the name of the town as they came through. Something like Fontenellato. It had a big church and a market square and looked quite a prosperous little place. It was the hour of the siesta, and the streets were empty.

David abandoned the bicycle and walked towards the square. Ahead of him he heard the sound of a heavy vehicle starting. He broke into a run. Sure enough, it was a bus and it was already moving.

The driver heard David’s shouts and slowed to a halt. David threw himself on board, and the bus started up again.

“A narrow escape,” said the conductor.

“Very narrow,” agreed David.

‘To what destination is the gentleman travelling?”

“Where does the bus go to?”

“Eventually to Piacenza.”

“Then Piacenza is my destination.”

An elderly gentleman in an alpaca jacket said, “It is dangerous to run in the heat of the day.”

“I am in entire agreement with you,” said David. “Such exercise is better taken in the cool of the morning, or perhaps in the evening when the sun is down.”

“It is better not taken at all. A little forethought is all that is necessary.”

“A last-minute decision.”

The old gentleman pondered this remark. He said, “Since it would appear that you did not know where you were going until you had boarded this bus, how could you have come to any decision?”

“I have an impulsive nature,” said David.

“You are English?”

“Certainly not. I am Welsh.”

“A nephew of mine once spent a year in Cardiff,” said the old gentleman. “He related to me some very curious stories about the Welsh.”

The bus had left the main road and was making a circuitous route, stopping in each of the many villages which dotted the Lombardy plain to pick up or put down passengers. The old gentleman fell asleep. The countryside baked in the late afternoon sun. David was busy with his thoughts.

How long would it have taken his enemies to discover that he was not in the coach? When they did discover it, what would they do? If they assumed that he had taken to the fields they would be in some difficulty. Policemen with motor cars and modern communications could be very effective on main roads but at a loss in open country.

If they cast back to Fontenellato might they not pick up the story of the stranger who had run through the streets and clambered on to the bus as it was leaving? If they did, there would surely be a reception committee awaiting him at Piacenza.

On the whole, David thought this unlikely. Undoubtedly they would get on to his track in the end, but he thought that he had a head start which it was up to him to make the most of. He could have wished that the bus was not quite so deliberate in its approach to Piacenza, whose towers and office blocks he could already see ahead of him, but it got there at last and put him down outside the mainline station. He walked into the welcome cool of the waiting room and consulted the indicator board.