Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

24

Sir Alistair Wilson deferred to Jackson’s experience as a field operator. During the short drive from the embassy he briefed the supervisor and then held back while Jackson organized the surveillance teams. The director’s car, which was being used for control, was moved from the Via Salaria to a cul-de-sac opposite. Jackson reversed the vehicle into it and extinguished the lights.

‘How long?’ he asked the director.

‘Twenty minutes, according to Walsingham.’

Jackson quickly left the car, crossing to the apartment block and paced out a distance, checking to see if their vehicles were conspicuous. He dodged back between the traffic and sat heavily into the driving seat. ‘Good enough,’ he said.

‘Everybody understands?’

‘Perfectly. They’re to let him go in and then seal the place.’

The director stared across at the building. ‘Looks like a warren.’

‘Well chosen.’

Wilson grunted.

‘What happens if he doesn’t show up on time?’

‘We give it fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘And then go in.’

‘What do you think he’s doing here?’

‘Whatever it is, he’s the key. He’s got to be.’

Along the main highway in front of them traffic fireflied by in a continuous flicker of lights. In the cul-de-sac vehicles were parked in careless Rome fashion, half on and half off the pavement. There were bicycles secured to railings by chains.

‘How much damage did he really do?’

‘A lot,’ said Wilson. ‘The CIA director, as well as our own controller, was seized, for exchange with a spy of their own. It’s taken years to build up confidence with Washington again. Kalenin was supposed to be crossing into Vienna: the Americans had put in almost a hundred people on the ground and we matched them, man for man. It was obviously impractical to take them all back into Czechoslovakia. The Russians fingerprinted and photographed the bloody lot of them.’

‘Bastard.’

Wilson looked apprehensively to the man beside him. ‘I don’t want him hurt,’ he said. ‘Not until I can gauge the extent of the damage.’

‘We’ll wait,’ said Jackson.

Wilson tensed as the car stopped opposite but relaxed as a young couple got out, laughing and hugging. He massaged the joint of his stiffened leg. It wasn’t cold so there was no reason for it to ache.

Conscious of the movement, Jackson said from beside him. ‘Waiting always screws me up.’

‘We’ve been waiting a long time for this one,’ said Wilson.

Charlie had become engulfed in the rush hour on the outskirts of the city, stop-starting his way through the congestion. Impatiently he had tried short cuts, guessing the general direction, and become blocked by even worse jams. He’d fought against the irritation, knowing it was pointless, and submitted at last to the slow crawl.

It was seven thirty before he approached the centre of Rome and three stops before he found someone with sufficient English to explain the route. But once in the Via Salaria Charlie had little problem finding the number.

It was bad. Unprotected and carrying half a million pounds, he was having to walk into a bloody great building in which a hundred villains could be hiding, just waiting for his head to emerge around a stairwell. In the old days he’d have had twenty men already moving through the building disguised as cleaners, janitors and repair men. And another squad outside, for additional protection. Charlie scratched his nose. He’d buggered it up and the old days were gone for ever. He considered taking a tyre lever from the boot but quickly dismissed it; if there were to be an ambush, a tyre lever would be about as effective as spitting at a house fire.

Charlie checked the mirror until the traffic eased and then got out of the car, pulling the case behind him. Instinctively he looked both ways along the road, squinting to see into the parked vehicles; it looked safe enough, but in a place like this it was impossible to be sure without back-up.

The middle door, he remembered. He pushed gently against it, feeling it give at once beneath the pressure, and eased through into the darkness. He barked his knuckles against the time switch but was grateful for the light. Somewhere in the distance he heard a baby’s cry, long and protracted. Charlie realized he was sweating, the handle of the case slippery beneath his fingers. The light clicked off before he reached the first landing, so that he had to make the last few steps in darkness.

The baby’s cry was louder and he wondered why somebody didn’t do anything about it: the Italians were supposed to love kids. He found the switch again and continued cautiously upwards. Somewhere above a door opened and closed and he waited for footsteps but none came. The second landing was as empty as the first. Charlie lighted the way but didn’t begin the final climb. He put the case between his feet and wiped his hands along the sides of his trousers. The baby had stopped crying; he hadn’t been aware of its happening. There wasn’t a sound now in the whole building. Only Charlie’s laboured breathing. He saw the apartment the moment he pressed the third-floor switch. The door was ajar. He went past 35 and found the link corridor into the next building; it was deserted. He came back to the door, listening against it. And then pushed it wider, not attempting to enter. He saw Walsingham’s body first, on his face and spreadeagled, and then the hand of someone else.

Every nerve, every instinct, every memory of his basic training, screamed at Charlie not to go in. He did.

The Italian was staring glazed-eyed at the ceiling: there was a lot of blood on his chest where the artery had burst, and it was difficult to see the exact wound.

Charlie noticed a Gucci bag near a side table and was stretching towards it when he saw the gun, partially concealed beneath Walsingham’s body. He recognized it at once as a Russian weapon. There was a second of numbed shock then a voice behind him shouted, ‘Stay where you are!’

There were three men just inside the door, fanned out so they had him in a twenty-five-degree arc of crossfire. They were hunched in standard marksman position, legs bent, pistol arm fully extended, the other hand clamped to the wrist to minimize the recoil.

Behind the gunmen was an elderly, wisp-haired man. He said, ‘Any move, no matter how slight, and they’ll fire. Not to kill you; it’ll be into your legs, to cripple you.’

He waited, appearing to expect a response. Then he said, ‘We’ve got you, Charlie Muffin.’

The ambassador and Naire-Hamilton listened grave-faced for the intelligence director to finish the explanation and then Naire-Hamilton said, ‘It’s a nasty one. Very nasty indeed.’

‘What are we going to do?’ demanded Billington.

‘Recover as best we can,’ suggested the Permanent Under Secretary. To the ambassador he said, ‘I think you’d better contact the Italian government right away.’