Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

19

Inspector Moro’s office was like the man, overflowing into untidiness. Against the far wall there was an ancient couch, leaking its horsehair stuffing through a collapsed sacking belly. The seat was confettied with papers that had dropped from the filing cabinets alongside. Moro’s desk was in front of the only window in the room, fly-stained and unwashed behind Venetian blinds. Papers were scattered over the desk and spilled, like a frozen waterfall, from a tiered set of plastic trays. There was a rust-spotted filing cabinet beneath framed diplomas made out in Moro’s name. Nearly all the drawers were half open. On top was a potted geranium which had died in disgust. Charlie had accepted coffee, which came in a polystyrene cup; now he didn’t know what to do with it.

‘It’s happening, just as we feared it would,’ said Moro. ‘The French have asked permission to send a contingent of their presidential security corps in addition to normal bodyguards, and the Germans want to send an anti-terrorist squad as well.’

‘Isn’t that an over-reaction?’ said Charlie. He’d suggested the meeting to convince the policeman of his intention to cooperate and reduce the possibility of Moro making inquiries about him in England. Being in a police station was not doing anything at all for his peace of mind.

‘Of course it is,’ said Moro. ‘But because of it there had to be a cabinet meeting this morning. Afterwards there was an assurance to all Common Market governments that they would be adequately protected… But it’s still embarrassing.’

Charlie leaned forward and wedged his coffee cup onto Moro’s cluttered desk. The policeman appeared not to notice it was untouched.

‘We agreed to cooperate,’ said Charlie.

‘So what have you to tell me?’

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie. Certainly not that he intended to try it alone if there were a sell-back approach rather than risk the interfering involvement of the police. That could ruin any handover and trap him in Italy until the Summit arrival of the intelligence protection.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I thought it was two-way cooperation.’

Moro absentmindedly moved some papers on his desk. ‘We’ve identified the blood group: it’s AB negative.’

‘It’s a common group.’

‘You got any police training?’ said Moro suddenly.

Charlie’s apprehension tightened several notches. He shook his head. ‘Sort of thing you pick up over the years.’

‘Common or not,’ Moro said. ‘It’ll be the link when we get him.’

‘You talked of fibres caught on the spikes.’

‘Nylon,’ said Moro. ‘The sort of stuff used in men’s jackets.’

‘Have you traced the firm?’

‘Only the manufacturers,’ said Moro. ‘They produce millions.’

‘What about street informants: there must be a lot of talk over this.’

Moro gazed steadily at Charlie. ‘That’s the surprising thing,’ he said. ‘We’re getting nothing back at all.’

The bastard still thinks I’m involved, thought Charlie. ‘What about the servants at the villa?’

‘All emphatic denials and good alibis.’

‘And the embassy staff who had knowledge of security and the safe?’

‘The only account we can’t confirm is that of the security officer, Walsingham. He says his wife was at the cinema with a friend and he stayed all evening at his apartment. But there’s no corroboration. Everyone’s under surveillance.’

That was giving art a bad name, thought Charlie. ‘It’s still only twenty-four hours,’ he said, unable to think of anything else.

‘And you’re still our best hope,’ said Moro.

It had taken Igor Solomatin several weeks of patient searching to find an apartment suitable for their needs. Four separate houses had been modified and knocked together over the years, creating a labyrinthine collection of rooms and flats, on different levels and linked by sudden corridors. Its most obvious advantage were three separate entrances at the front and a spider’s web of fire-escape grilles at the back. Vasily Leonov examined the empty, stale-smelling rooms with detached professionalism.

‘How long will we be here?’ he said.

‘I’m allowing twenty minutes but I hope it will be over in fifteen,’ said the Russian controller. ‘The first is unimportant: we can take Fantani whenever we want. It’s the second that matters. We’ve rehearsed the run over the distance and at the same time on five occasions and always arrived within three minutes of schedule. We expect the Englishman will do the same.’

‘What’s our escape margin?’

‘Five minutes.’

‘That’s not long.’

‘But sufficient.’

Solomatin depressed the button of a stop watch and led the way back out onto the main corridor. The stairway that provided the only access was almost directly opposite. Solomatin turned away to the left, where a doorway led into a corridor. ‘It links with the next house,’ said Solomatin. They halted on an adjoining landing. ‘Down one flight and to the left is the rear fire escape.’ Solomatin set off again at a leisurely pace, stopping the watch at the window leading out to the back of the building. ‘Two minutes,’ he said. ‘Two more to get down. We’ll be in the street before they come in the front door.’

‘What if something goes wrong?’ said Leonov. ‘A breakdown? Or a puncture?’

‘The whole purpose of sending him up and down the autostrada is surveillance,’ reminded Solomatin. ‘We’ll be with him all the time. The alarm won’t be raised until he’s reached the city and we can judge his arrival here to the minute.’

‘There’s still the chance of a mistake.’ Leonov was unconvinced.

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ said Solomatin. ‘In two days we’ll be on our way back to Moscow to a hero’s welcome.’

They left the building separately through different exits, and Solomatin drove across the city to Fantani’s apartment in the Piazza del Popolo.

‘I can move my fingers,’ said the Italian, as Solomatin entered. ‘It hurts but I can do it.’

‘I told you it was only bruising.’

‘Everything ready?’

Solomatin nodded. ‘It’s time to make the call.’

Charlie moved about the hotel room without direction, experiencing a loneliness he hadn’t felt for a long time. He started opening and closing cupboards and doors. At the back of a shirt drawer was a pair of Clarissa’s tights. For a moment he ran the material through his fingers, and then he dumped them in the waste bin. It was right that he should have told her to go. He just hadn’t expected it to be like this.

Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, automatically removing his shoes and massaging his feet. He snatched out for the telephone when it rang, smiling in anticipation of her voice; then he recognized Billington.

‘I’ve been given a meeting place,’ said the ambassador. ‘And instructions.’

‘I didn’t get the impression that the ambassador was particularly pleased,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘He said today was impossible so I’ve arranged it for tomorrow.’

‘Does he know I’m with you?’

‘Yes,’ said the Permanent Under Secretary. ‘What about Walsingham?’

‘Circumstantially it looks strong.’

‘Good enough to ship him home?’

‘Possibly. But I’m going to leave him where he is. If he’s the one, he’ll panic to his control.’

‘What if he doesn’t?’

‘We keep on looking.’