Illegal Action

37

From Rome, Scusi replied at last to Peggy: he was very sorry not to have answered earlier but he had got married ten days before and been in Umbria on his luna di miele. Unfortunately his colleagues had been unable to locate Marco Tutti. As a courtesy, he attached a list of people in the Italian art world who had been convicted of offences in the last ten years.

Peggy sighed, wondering just how she could provide enough information about Tutti to have Scusi run background checks. She was confident a request for A4 surveillance would get turned down, and in any case there was no reason to think it would uncover anything criminal about the Italian.

She looked idly through the list of names Scusi had sent. Nothing there even remotely resembling “Marco Tutti.” Near the bottom was another list, of people deported from Italy, presumably for more than average bad behaviour—smuggling antiquities out of Italy, she knew, was almost commonplace. She looked at a virtual smorgasbord of international surnames: Erickson, Goldfarb, Deschamps, Forbes… she stopped and looked again. Harry Forbes, expelled from Italy.

She picked up the phone and dialled Rome. Pronto, a voice declared and by the time she was put through, after a succession of non-English-speaking secretaries, Peggy was almost regretting the call.

“Signor Scusi, I am sorry to bother you again, but I know one of the names of the deportees on the list you sent me. Harry Forbes—it says he was expelled from Italy for involvement in an antiquities smuggling ring. What I’d like to know is if anyone else was involved.”

“Uno momento.” She could hear him ruffling through pages. “Si. Two other men were caught. But they were not deported.” He gave a small derisory snort. “They went to jail because they were Italian citizens. Their names are Camurati and Marcone.”

Peggy could not have explained her next request—she was operating solely on instinct now. “Could you send me the details on these two men?”

Four hours later she was examining Scusi’s latest message. She walked into Liz’s office and put one of the attachments on her desk.

“Why are you showing me a picture of Marco Tutti?” asked Liz.

“Because his real name is Luigi Marcone. He was convicted of art fraud in Italy and spent three years behind bars in Sicily. The authorities also arrested Harry Forbes, but he was only expelled from the country. Both were accused of helping tombaroli—tomb raiders—smuggle gold coins out of Sicily for American collectors.

“When he got out of prison, Marcone changed his name to Tutti and moved to England. Though from what you’ve said his interest in art is as strong as ever.”

Liz nodded, then mused for a moment. “I can’t see how this makes him a threat to Brunovsky. Except to his pocket of course. He’s obviously cheating Brunovsky in some way or another but there’s no reason to think he has any Russian connections.”

“I know.”

“Still, he’s worth keeping an eye on. Along with Harry Forbes.”

“What I can’t understand,” said Peggy, “is why the FBI didn’t turn up Harry Forbes. They must have a record if he was expelled from Italy.”

“Two departments not speaking to each other, I expect,” replied Liz. “Anyway, I don’t think they’re interested in anything except terrorism nowadays.” She fixed Peggy with a look. “I’m impressed you’ve found this,” she said.

“The Italians are very good,” said Peggy modestly.

“Actually,” said Liz, “so are you.” And Peggy felt her face turn bright red.

There was a tap on the open door, and Michael Fane loomed in the doorway. “Could I have a word, Liz?” he asked. He glanced at Peggy. “In private please.”

Peggy got up. “Speak to you later,” she said to Liz. As she left she noticed that Michael did not seem his usual confident self. He looked worried. Oh good, thought Peggy uncharitably, maybe he’s screwed up.

He had. His account of following Rykov to lunch in Wiltons emerged haltingly, but when he had finished Liz could not conceal her astonishment. “You total idiot,” she exclaimed.

He hung his head like a runaway dog come home.

“What on earth possessed you?” she demanded.

“I couldn’t believe A4 was pulled off.” He lifted his head now, and scratched his cheek while he tried to marshal his defence. “I thought somebody should watch Ivanov. And I wanted to show some initiative.”

“That wasn’t initiative, Michael, that was stupidity.” She cupped her chin firmly in her hand, and he could see she was trying to control her anger. “Look,” she said sharply, “why didn’t you ask me before you did it?”

“I thought you’d say no.”

“You were right—I would have. And saved you from the mess you’ve got yourself into. Michael, what you’ve got to understand is that we do things here for a reason. A4 are the surveillance professionals, not you or me. They know how to avoid being seen. You don’t, as you’ve proved. You always have to remember, Michael, that in an investigation you only know a part of what’s going on. Has it occurred to you that you may well be looking at the Rykov-Ivanov connection from the wrong angle? There may be something going on completely different from what you think, and by acting so stupidly you’ve given away information. They know now that we’re interested. Just think about that,” and shaking her head with exasperation, she reached for the phone.

“Does that mean I’m in trouble?” he asked.

But Liz was already speaking. “Brian, I need to see you urgently. Yes, I’ll be right down.” When she hung up she got to her feet without looking at Michael.

“If you’d kept your eye on the intelligence, instead of trying to be James Bond, you’d see that Rykov’s suddenly being sent home,” she said as she left the room. “Why don’t you go back to your desk and try to work out what that might mean?”