October Men

"So you knew he was doing something very dangerous?"

"I knew he was risking his life for us." Sophie swallowed and her neck muscles tightened momentarily. "But I'd known that for some time, Dr. Audley."

"How did you know—if he didn't tell you about it?"

"How does a wife know anything?" Sophie swallowed again.

"The man—the man in London—he said Richard was a good agent, that he was always very careful. But I know even better that ... he was a good man . . . that he was a good husband and a good father. Although he was older he never seemed like it to us—he used to say we had given him a second lease of life. And it was true. . . ."

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The emotions beneath the simple words were on a cruelly tight rein. But what was clear from both (unless she was a marvellously accomplished liar even when there was no need for lies) was that the little carrier of second-class mail, the limping salesman of agricultural machinery, had been a big man to his Rhinemaiden, and that he had impressed her every bit as much as he had impressed Eugenio Narva. And if that didn't fit the pictures in the file it was the pictures that deceived: like the poet said, it was all in the eye of the beholder— the cornflower-blue eye.

"But then he was different. . . ."

No one seemed to want to ask the next question, in the hope that the answer would come unasked.

"He was worried; he was terribly worried each time he went on a sales trip. And when he came back he was so tired—

instead of taking the children out he pretended he was still getting over the flu—he'd just had a nasty bout of it in Moscow—"

"He pretended?" Audley repeated gently.

"He pretended he'd been to the doctor and got some little white pills he took, but he hadn't been at all—when I went to the doctor about Lotte's tonsils I asked him, and he said Richard hadn't been near him in ages. ... He was sick—he wouldn't eat and so he lost weight—but it was worry he was sick with. And I knew it wasn't the business because Frau Krauss told me how well they were doing, and how pleased they were with Richard—she is the sales director's secretary dummy2

—"

Sophie paused, taking a deep breath, as though she felt the reins slipping and needed time to grip them again.

"The lie about the doctor—I thought we had no secrets until then. So I asked him outright: I said if he had something bad on his mind I had a right to share it, just as I shared the good things."

"You thought it was something to do with his work for us?"

"It was what I was always afraid of, yes. But he said it was not that. And then he told me of his meeting with Eugenio—with Signor Narva . . . and of the plans he had for us to come to the West."

"You had talked about escaping before?"

"To the West?" Sophie gave Audley a bitter little smile. "Oh yes, Dr. Audley—we dreamed of it. We dreamed—of one day."

"But he never told you what he was going to give in exchange for his dream?"

Sophie shook her head. "No ... but he said that this time there could be danger. He said it would not be easy, as it was for you. And then he told me what to do when Herr Westphal came for me. That was all."

"Except you weren't to tell us about Westphal, eh?"

Richardson, watching her intently, could not decide how much lay still untold and how much had gone over her dummy2

golden head—she was stunning enough to fog anyone's judgement. But if that when was genuine recall and not a slip of the tongue— when Herr Westphal came—it was the final dead giveaway that Hotzendorff himself hadn't banked on being around for the pick-up.

And even if her memory had played her false, or even if her husband had just been his careful self, preparing for the worst, it still amounted to the same thing. For if he couldn't yet decide about Sophie, whether she was a good liar as well as a good wife, he had decided at last about Little Bird.

After flying for so long in the safety of the woods, Little Bird had broken cover to soar high and free—where the birds of prey were always waiting for little birds. He had known the risk that they would swoop on him, but Sophie made the risk worth while; for someone like her the chance of a few rich years in the sun would be enough for any man. All the theories and countertheories were resolved in her.

"That is true, Dr. Audley." Sophie regarded the big man gravely, as though she understood that the implied rebuke was fair. "But let me say this: my Richard never cheated you—

he always served you honestly."

"I didn't say he didn't."

So Audley had succumbed to her too, or at least he was being gentle to her. For her Richard had undoubtedly placed other men in jeopardy by attempting his private coup, the men of his own delivery network in Russia and in East Germany.

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"I didn't want him to go—do you think I wanted him to go back to Moscow?" Sophie's voice rose. "I begged him not to go back there. But he said it was all too far gone—he had his obligations. All his life he—he had obligations—he never let anyone down. But he said now he was just thinking of us—"

"Sophie, my dear—" Narva took a step towards her, uncertainly.

Poor old Eugenio Narva, thought Richardson, watching the pain and irresolution in the man's face, as out of place on it as flowers on a fortress. His sin had caught him out with this ultimate refinement of cruelty: not just his sense of guilt but the powerful ghost of a self-sacrificing husband lay between him and the woman. Ten billion lire and an infinity of Hail Marys weren't enough to beat that alliance.

"Ha-hmm—professore—"

Somehow little Rat face had entered the room without anyone taking the least bit of notice.

"Professore—" Boselli began nervously.

But then unobtrusiveness was probably another of his skills.

And, come to that, it was hard to imagine those rather timid eyes lining up an automatic—the whole weird deception of the man was remarkable!

"—We—the General has a line cleared to—" the eyes flicked over the others "—a line cleared." So the two names had worked their magic. Moscow was on the line.

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XVI

THE BLEACHED STONES of the dry watercourse were treacherously unstable, as though the last of the winter torrents hadn't been strong enough to settle them firmly into their final positions. Already Boselli had nearly broken his ankle on one, saved only by his stout new country boots.

Unfortunately, the boots were also stiff and uncomfortable, and neither in shape nor colour did they match his city suit.

But then the suit itself had come far down in the world in the last twenty-four hours: it was dusty and rumpled—it looked as though he had slept in it, which was close to the truth—

and there were signs of serious damage to the knees and elbows, the souvenirs of Ostia.

Boselli wondered unhopefully whether he could add the suit to his growing list of expenses. The boots, he had already decided, were a legitimate charge on the state, being the result of a direct command from the General, but for the rest he would have to consult the appropriate schedule. Maria was always very hot on his recovering the most minute expenses, down to the smallest bus fare, insisting on checking them all herself before he submitted them. But he had never before had anything like the bizarre items now entered in his little book, so bizarre that he would never dare show them to her. He would have to pretend he had lost the book, meekly accepting the contempt that the lie would incur.

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"Keep your head down, Pietro," snapped the General out of nowhere. "Keep your head down and put your coat on—and then come up here."

Boselli looked about him wildly, clutching the precious tape recorder to his chest. Better a broken ankle than a broken tape recorder —it was small, but it had an expensive weight and feel to it even apart from its contents.

"My coat?"

"They're not blind, man. That white shirt of yours stands out like a surrender flag. Cover it up!"

The shirt blended in rather well with the stones, thought Boselli, and his jacket felt like an overcoat in the heat. But an order was an order.

The General lay full length in the dirt, half under a bush on the lip of the bank, a large pair of binoculars beside him.

Boselli began to scramble up, his boots slipping in the loose pebbles. When he had reached the level of the General's feet he stopped, steadying himself with his free hand.

"Beside me—here," ordered the General, indicating a dusty patch just within the shadow of the bush. It was clear that he expected Boselli to prostrate himself similarly, which was all very well for someone in battle dress and combat jacket, but which would put the finishing touch to the suit's degradation.

Unhappily he edged his way up the last stage of the incline and stretched himself alongside his master.

"Good. Now have a look at the place," said the General dummy2

briskly, offering the binoculars.

It was just as hot in the shadow as in the open, but the General showed no sign of discomfort. In fact quite the opposite: he radiated an air of well-being and good humour—

it was obvious that he was enjoying himself playing at being an operational commander again after so many desk-ridden years.

And so he might, thought Boselli, because no ordinary commander would have been able to cut through all the interdepartmental, inter-force rivalries so easily. When the General whispered, people moved; when he spoke they jumped; when he growled they broke the sound barrier. He had known this before, but he had never participated in it actively, and the memory of what he himself had achieved in the past few hours using the General's name steadied him now. There were morale-raising rewards in pretending to be a man of action, always provided one could keep out of the front line.

As if to support this conclusion came the distant sound of the spotter plane, making its second pass exactly on schedule. It droned high over their heads, corrected its course to pass directly over the hill and disappeared over the mountains beyond.

Boselli wedged his dark glasses above his brow, blinking for a moment in the harsh light, wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers, and accepted the binoculars.

It took him ten fumbling seconds to adjust them—the dummy2

General must be as blind as a bat—and then the hilltop came up in focus, first the vines, then the outbuildings, and finally the dilapidated farmhouse itself. But there was not a sign of movement anywhere, and he could see nothing more in close-up than he had been able to see with the naked eye half a mile down the gulley of the watercourse, in the grove of trees where the cars were hidden.

He lowered the binculars and stared at the landscape around.

The ground directly ahead was bare and scrubby for perhaps half a mile, maybe more, until the first row of vines. Away to the right he could see the naked line of the track which must lead to the farm from the road. It was poor country and the wine from those grapes would be harsh—a land of bare subsistence living.

"Well?"

Boselli shrugged. "If this is the place—it looks uninhabited."

"It is the place."

"They could be lying."

He realised that he didn't know—would never know—who

"they" were. It had been just a voice calling the number they had given from a public callbox—at the Stazione Termini.

"Disobeying an order coming all the way from the Kremlin?"

The General snorted. "I really don't think that's very likely.

Besides, I know it is the place."

Boselli waited for enlightenment.

"According to the local police it is owned by the brothers dummy2

Giolitti, but unless I'm very much mistaken their real name is Prezzolini . . . and they were both founder-members of the Bastard's execution squad in the old days." The General nodded up towards the hill speculatively. "This is the place."

He turned back to Boselli. "And now, Pietro—you have arranged everything?"

"Yes, General—" Boselli checked his watch, "—the helicopter will be here on the hour. The spotter plane—"

"That was on time. It has made two passes." The General nodded. "Just enough to alert them, but not quite enough to frighten them. The chopper will do that."

"And it is necessary to frighten them?"

"Oh, yes. That is the psychology of it—Dr. Audley's psychology. You must remember that this is really his operation, Pietro. We have merely implemented it."

Boselli had been remembering little else in his spare moments ever since that first call to Moscow, and he was no nearer resolving the contradictions in the General's behaviour. For two things were clear to him beyond all else: the General wanted George Ruelle dead—and the General was proposing to let George Ruelle slip through his fingers.

Admittedly, any attempt to take Ruelle from his hilltop would almost certainly result in the death of the Englishwoman, which would be regrettable. But the English had only themselves to blame for the situation, and the deaths of Armando Villari and the policeman, never mind dummy2

that old score from 1943, demanded final settlement. The General was an honourable man, of course, and would keep his word—Boselli had no quarrel with that. What he could not reconcile was that the General had agreed to give his word in the first place.

"General—" Boselli searched for a way of saying what was in his mind, or at least some of it, and came to the conclusion that it was probably written on his face anyway.

"We must let Dr. Audley save his good lady first," said the General. "After that—we shall see how things develop. But now I would like to hear that tape of yours, eh?"

Biselli unzipped the black leather case and drew the recorder out.

"From the beginning, General?"

"I think so. I know you said over the phone that it was not exactly informative."

"Except where the Russian—Panin—said that he had given orders that the Party would find out where Ruelle was hiding, General. Otherwise he denied everything."

"No leakage of secrets? No traitor?"

Boselli shook his head. "He insisted that the German's death was due to natural causes—that the record was correct."

"And did Dr. Audley seem surprised—or disappointed?"

"No, General—not at all."

"Of course he didn't, Pietro. He never expected the Russians dummy2

to admit anything. Like all savages they are very sensitive about such things."

The General's mouth twisted sardonically. "And frankly, if I was in their place I wouldn't have admitted anything either."

"And yet he trusted them to get him the information he wanted."

"And was not disappointed, Pietro—for here we are—" the General nodded towards the hill, "—and there the Bastard is."

Boselli frowned. The General's high good humour was positively unsettling, but this was no time to suggest by further questions that he, Boselli, was out of sympathy with it because he was too stupid to understand what was going on.

He had never thought of himself as stupid before, but it was clear that he had missed the significance of whatever it was that pleased the General.

He reached forward to the tape recorder.

"But of course he didn't trust them," said the General. "It is as well for you to understand that, because you may have to deal with this man Audley again and you must learn how his mind works."

The General paused thoughtfully. "He has a good mind, this Englishman—a Renaissance mind. He knows how to threaten without making threats."

"He threatened them—the Russians?"

"Oh yes. But not in so many words. What he did was to give dummy2

them the blueprint of the threat—the materials . . . a—what do you call it? —a do-it-yourself kit. That is what he gave them—a do-it-yourself kit!"

He grinned boyishly at Boselli, as though his knowledge of such a plebeian thing as do-it-yourself was surprising.

"Don't worry, Pietro—your instinct was right. No one in his right mind trusts a Communist to trade honestly, they are worse than Neapolitans. But you must remember what Audley said to the man Panin that first time at Positano."

"He was—very frank."

"Indeed he was. He offered to trade one piece of information for another, and to show his good faith he offered his own information in advance. But what else did he give?"

Boselli thought back. At the time he had thought the Englishman had been unnecessarily talkative, both as regards events in England and in Italy.

"He made sure the Russian knew that he was personally involved —that his wife's life was at stake. He said there had been a shooting in England—" the General's manicured left forefinger marked off each item on the fingers of his right hand, "—and a worse one in Italy. He emphasised that he knew the KGB was not to blame—that the agent Korbel and the Bastard were no better than terrorists—and that the authorities in both countries were prepared to offer terms not only to save the woman but also to avoid unnecessary scandal. He said if the newspapers here got hold of it, with dummy2

the elections approaching, they would make a feast of it, and nobody wanted that—it would only benefit the neo-Fascists and the trouble-makers. He—" The General stopped as he saw the light of understanding in Boselli's eyes, "—you see, Pietro?"

Boselli saw—and saw that he had been absurdly slow in catching on.

The deal—the trading of information—was a fiction to enable the Russians to take his orders and to give their own without loss of face. The traitor in Moscow was of no importance to the Englishman compared with his wife, and he had served notice that if any harm befell her he would blow the whole scandal wide open.

It mattered not at all that the KGB was for once blameless.

Either the world would refuse to believe it, and they would be branded as kidnappers and murderers at a time when the civilised world was sick of such crimes; or they would be revealed publicly as the incompetent employers of kidnappers and murderers, incapable of controlling their own agents. And the fact that this was often true enough made not the least difference: what mattered was that it should not be seen to be true by the man in the street.

"You see, Pietro?"

Boselli nodded. But what he still did not see was why the General, as a lifetime Red-hater, was so happy to go along with the Englishman's plan.

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"Good!" The General looked at his watch. "Now you can play me the tape."

By the time they got back to the cars the Englishmen had arrived: they were sitting on the pine needles, talking quietly for all the world as though they were waiting for a picnic to begin. Indeed, they seemed more relaxed now than at any time since he had first met them, during which no immediate danger had threatened them. And since they might be both dead within half an hour this must be a conscious display of that celebrated British phlegm of which they were so proud, but which Boselli had always imagined stemmed from a simple lack of imagination.

Audley rose slowly, brushing the pine needles from his trousers before coming towards them.

"Good day, General—Signor Boselli," Audley gave the General a little bow and Boselli a curious glance as though he was looking at him for the first time. "Are we all set, then?"

"Everything is as you wished it to be, Dr. Audley," said the General. "It's a typical Ruelle bolt-hole, with an escape route at the rear —he always boasted that his kennels had back doors to them. But we have the whole place covered."

"And the presence of your men in this area is accounted for, just in case?"

The General looked at Boselli.

"Yes, professore. There was an announcement on radio and dummy2

television last night and again today—there is supposed to have been a breakout from prison at Naples. We have had roadblocks set up over half the province to make it look authentic."

"Excellent. And of course the roadblocks will have discouraged them from leaving the farm, eh?"

That bonus hadn't occurred to Boselli, but he nodded quickly and knowingly in agreement. He had worked hard enough on this operation to justify taking all the credit that was going spare. Besides, it was for the best that the Englishmen should have their confidence built up: they were taking all the risks, after all.

"Very well." Audley turned to the General. "But there is just one small change in plan. I'm not going to take Richardson with me. I've decided against it."

Richardson's brow creased with surprise. "What do you mean? We agreed—"

"—We didn't agree anything, so don't start arguing, Peter."

"Arguing? Man—I'm here to watch out for you!"

"Too late for that. And once we're up there, there isn't anything you can do to stop things going wrong—if I can't swing it."

"Oh, come off it! The Bastard's a real mean guy, David—"

Audley shook his head obstinately. "I know the score. You're not coming, Peter. I don't need you—and besides, it's better that one of us remain here."

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Richardson turned hotly to the General, though why he was so keen to reject the chance of safety with honour quite escaped Boselli. It could only be boneheaded self-esteem: the fellow was as bad as Armando Villari.

"General—" Richardson appealed, "—you tell him!"

"No, Captain," replied the General, with a sudden flash of his old military decisiveness. "Dr. Audley is right and you are wrong. I agree with him."

"My job—"

"—Your job, Captain, is to obey orders. If not Dr. Audley's, then mine," snapped the General. "Now, Dr. Audley—do you intend to go alone?"

The grove of trees was quite cool, really. And for once even the cicadas seemed to have given up.

"No. I need someone to deliver your bargain ... to give substance to it, anyway."

"Again, I agree," the General nodded. "Then I shall go with you. I'd like to have a last look at the Bastard—I didn't get a good look last time."

"No, General—"

A fearful premonition stirred within Boselli.

"—that would be bad tactics. It might be like a red rag to a bull, and we don't want this bull angered—"

No General! Not you General—Boselli felt the stillness ringing inside his head, making his senses swim. It was like dummy2

the moment in Ostia all over again—like the moment when the other car turned towards you and there was no time to turn the wheel and nowhere to go. The moment when the examiner said I'm sorry, but— The moment of total realisation and of no escape.

"—and your name will be enough, at the right time. I'd rather take Signor Boselli, if you can spare him—"

XVII

HE COULDN'T REMEMBER anything they had said, he could only see the dusty track stretching up the hillside towards the farm. "Is there anything else you'd like to know before we start?"

Boselli felt the sweat beneath his palms on the steering wheel. He had the feeling that this was at least the second time of asking that question. But there was nothing else he needed to know, because he knew it all.

Maybe the big Englishman was doing what he thought was best and most reasonable in cold blood. And maybe he was right at that! But he, Boselli, the Boselli of flesh and blood, was here because the General liked to hedge his bets; because the General thought maybe the Englishman couldn't pull it off, and if he didn't then it would be better to lose the little clerk Boselli than the son of one of his old flames, the half-Englishman—

If you can spare him—

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"I beg your pardon, signore—professore?"

"Is there anything you're doubtful about?"

"Doubtful?"

Mother of God, but that was an understatement!

Audley regarded him keenly. "You didn't seem very interested in what I was saying back there."

Not very interested? Well, if that was how he had appeared Boselli supposed he ought to be grateful that he had concealed his absolute dismay so well. It had certainly not been lack of interest, but rather the resignation of the bullock in the slaughterhouse yard.

"I was listening." That was true enough; he could even remember the Englishman's words exactly. The trouble was that they were now just a string of remembered sounds without the life breath of meaning. "You are going to tell the truth."

"Pretty much, yes. The only thing I'm not going to tell him is that it's the KGB itself we've consulted. He mustn't even suspect that, or we're done for."

"I understand."

That was not quite true, either, since Audley had omitted to say what this miraculous truth of his was, or how it was going to change George Ruelle's plans. But the General hadn't seemed unduly curious about it, and neither was Boselli now.

He was cast as an onlooker again, and the bullock's lethargy dummy2

was overpowering.

Anyway, the truth was there, up in the farmhouse, waiting for him. And so was Ruelle. And he could escape neither of them.

Except for the bumping of the car on the potholes and summer-hardened ruts, they didn't seem to be moving: it was the farm that was coming towards them, first on one side and then on the other, and finally on the last straight hundred metres dead ahead. He couldn't take his eyes off it.

"You're going too fast," murmured Audley. "Go slowly—we must do everything slowly now."

The tyres slithered as Boselli braked too hard. He hadn't been aware of his speed, and the Englishman was absolutely right: whatever fear he felt at coming to this place would be matched by the alarm their arrival must cause here. Fear made men trigger happy, and these pigs had already shown themselves to be that.

The farm resolved itself into a tumbledown collection of buildings almost encircling them, with two other cars tucked in the shadow of a crumbling barn—a little Fiat 600, old and battered, and a larger pale green vehicle of a make Boselli didn't recognise.

"Stop here."

Obediently Boselli halted in the middle of the yard.

"Get out slowly—and for God's sake keep your hands in view.

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They'll be expecting something from you, if anyone."

Boselli couldn't understand what the Englishman was driving at, but there was no time to ask for an explanation.

He knew only that his hands seemed to have become large and clumsy, and he didn't know where to put them for safety.

In the end, as he came round the front of the car, he found that he was holding them loosely in front of his chest, as he did at home when he was looking for a towel to dry them.

"Stop!"

The voice was as loud as a pistol shot behind him.

"Don't move—and don't turn round."

The second part of the command was superfluous: there was nothing in the world which would have moved Boselli one hair's-breadth from where he was standing, and for a moment he was afraid his heart was obeying also.

"Raise your arms—higher—now walk towards the wall ahead

— slowly—"

The wall? Up against the wall?

"You—move!"

Boselli's legs managed an unwilling shuffle.

"Stop! Now lean forward on your fingertips."

Boselli knew what to do: he had seen it on the films and in photographs—the helpless prisoners lined up without dignity against a thousand walls already pitted at man-killing height.

Through the roughness of the walls he was joining this dummy2

multitude of the half-dead.

A heavy boot struck the inside of his right foot without warning, kicking it farther away from the other. The sudden extra weight on his other leg made his left knee buckle, so that for a moment he thought he would lose his balance.

"Stand still!"

Boselli froze while a rough hand explored his body, one side at a time, from ankle to crotch and then from waist to armpit.

"All right—you can stand up." The voice sounded farther away, as though its owner had decided that they were still dangerous even though unarmed. "Turn round."

Boselli turned slowly. It was not Ruelle, certainly, though the age was about right, and not the confederate from England either, the man Korbel. The stained working clothes and the three-day beard suggested one of the Prezzolini brothers, the ex—executioners. And so did the machine-pistol in his hands: where the man was dirty and unkempt, the gun was spotless.

"I want to talk to Ruelle," said Audley abruptly.

"What about?"

"About my business—and his."

"How did you know where to come?"

"You know who I am, then?"

"I said—how did you know where to come?"

"And I said I'll talk to Ruelle."

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The man stared belligerently at Audley, then gestured with the gun towards the house.

"Inside."

It was something to have survived the first encounter, but the doorway of the farmhouse, with shuttered windows on each side, didn't look inviting: it was like the opening of a black pit.

As he passed under the low lintel—the Englishman ahead of him had hunched his head to negotiate it—the smell of savoury cooking was the first and strongest sensation to register, rather than any impression of the room's contents.

And then there was no time to take in anything apart from sordid litter on the table just ahead of him, a blackened saucepan, bottles and a half-eaten loaf.

"Ruelle—" Audley snapped.

They were to the right of the table, no mistaking this time, even in the slowly clearing half-light—no mistaking even though he had never seen these men in the flesh.

"How did you get here?" Ruelle echoed the Prezzolini brother's question, but with much greater menace even though he carried no gun to back it up.

"The Police brought me."

"The Police!"

It was the man alongside Ruelle who spoke, in a thick foreign accent which Boselli couldn't place until he recalled that it had been Southern Russia from which Korbel had set out dummy2

thirty years before.

Ruelle was silent for a moment, then he reached inside his coat and drew out a large automatic pistol from his waistband. "Guido— cover the front. I'll call you when I'm ready. I'll deal with these."

The light from the doorway was cut off for an instant as Guido ducked outside without a word; the old habit of obedience hadn't lapsed with time. But it was Ruelle's last phrase which petrified Boselli.

Audley ostentatiously looked at his watch. "Peter Korbel—

you know me. And you know I'm not a fool—"

"You brought the Police," Ruelle cut in fiercely. "I warned you

—"

"No!" Audley bit back just as fiercely. "I said the Police brought me. There's a difference."

"Not to me."

"You idiot—they've been on to you from the start. They saw you at the airport. You brought the Police to me!" Audley turned back to Korbel, reaching slowly across his chest and taking the white handkerchief from his outside breast pocket.

"There's a little window on the north side of this house, a narrow one just above ground level. Hang this out of it."

Korbel stared at him, his broad, creased face still frozen with the shocked imprint of the word "police" on it.

"Why?"

"Because if you don't they'll be swarming all over you in—"

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Audley looked at his wristwatch again "—just under six minutes."

"By which time you will be very dead."

"I will have you to keep me company soon enough."

Ruelle's lips twisted. "Signore—the Fascists couldn't catch me and the Nazis couldn't catch me either. And they knew the score. Your fucking baby cops are still wet behind the ears. If they knew the way I operate they'd be here already—"

"You mean your kennel has a back door to it?"

Ruelle gaped. "Eh?"

"Yes, there's an old acquaintance of yours out there, Ruelle,"

said Audley conversationally. "His name's Raffaele Montuori.

He was a major when you last met him, but he's come a long way since then. He's a general now."

"George—" Korbel hissed, "—Montuori is—"

"—I know what he is—shut up!"

"And he hasn't forgotten you," continued Audley. "In fact he wants you so badly his balls ache. And he's just hoping you'll put a bullet in me so he can come and take you—so badly he's had this place sewn up tight for the last fifteen hours just in case you made a run for it."

"George—"

"Maybe you heard on the radio about the Naples jailbreak,"

said Audley remorselessly, shaking his head slowly. "But of course that was just for your benefit, so he could block this dummy2

place off properly . . . just in case you still might know what the real score is."

In the moment of silence which followed, Boselli heard the distant sound of an engine. He looked down quickly at his watch: the helicopter was one minute early.

Audley had heard too. He leaned forward across the table.

"I'm the only thing that stands between you and Montuori, Ruelle—you talk with me or you take your chance with him.

He doesn't want to talk."

The engine was louder now.

"And you've got ninety seconds to start listening to me."

The room darkened again as Guido Prezzolini appeared in the doorway. "There's a plane coming up the valley from the west—this way, chief!"

"Not a plane," said Audley. "A helicopter. The plane has already been over. The first pass will be just to pinpoint the target. There are armoured personnel carriers on the road, rocket launchers. For all I know he's got Alpini on the mountain behind you. You're getting the V.I.P. treatment today."

Korbel stretched across the table and snatched the handkerchief from Audley's hand. Then, as the sound of the engine increased to the point where Boselli could identify the distinctive racket of the rotor, he disappeared quickly through a doorway just behind him. There was a thumping noise and then a tinkle of broken glass: whatever the state of dummy2

Ruelle's nerves, his partner was ready to talk.

The roar of the helicopter reached a crescendo as the machine clattered low over the farmhouse, and then diminished quickly as it passed over the shoulder of the mountain beyond. Korbel slipped back quickly into the room again.

"Go back and watch, Guido," ordered Ruelle. "Let me know the moment anyone starts up the track."

This time Prezzolini's reaction was not so quick. He looked at Ruelle half mutinously before grunting and slouching back into the yard.

"What are you offering?" said Korbel.

"First—I want to see my wife."

"She's not been hurt."

"Then she can tell me that herself."

Korbel nodded. "Very well."

Audley and Ruelle stared at each other silently for half a minute after Korbel had ducked back through the doorway again.

At length Ruelle spoke. "How did they get on to this place?"

Audley shrugged. "They haven't told me. Maybe they kept tabs on your friend with the gun. They're not so wet behind the ears as you think, anyway—not with Montuori behind them. And they had you spotted, as I've said."

Ruelle's eyes shifted to Boselli. "Who's he?"

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Boselli's heart thumped. Those were butcher's eyes appraising a bullock, and he hoped desperately that Audley wasn't going to let slip that the bullock belonged to Rafiaele Montuori.

But before Audley could reply the door at the back of the room swung open again.

"David!"

The woman was very thin—he remembered that the soft-drinks vendor at Ostia had said as much—and her long hair was so pale as almost to seem white in the gloom, half covering her face. She was not at all the sort of woman he would have associated with the heavily-built Englishman, and also much younger. He was reminded of the German woman back at Positano, though she was much more beautiful and feminine than this one.

Audley took three quick strides round the end of the table, sending a chair spinning.

"Love—it's all right—there, it's all right." The Englishman enfolded his wife in a bear hug.

"Okay—so you've seen her!" Ruelle's voice was loud and harsh, and the automatic was raised and steady, as though he expected Audley to come at him. "You have a deal—I'll hear it. I promise nothing, though."

Audley didn't let go of his wife, but merely loosened his grip.

"You've got fifteen minutes to be out of here, and forty-eight hours to be out of Italy—you two. The others don't matter.

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They must leave here with you, but after that it's up to them."

"I said a deal. She goes with us."

"David—"

"I said it was all right, love." Audley's arm tightened round his wife again. He looked at Ruelle coldly. "With her you won't get past the first roadblock, I promise you that! They'll let four men through in one car—and then only after I've given them the next signal . . . which will be given the moment you drive out of here, not before."

"That's no deal at all—without her we have nothing!" Korbel said.

"With her you have nothing. Without her you'll be alive."

"No!" Ruelle filled the word with anger. "For your wife there was to be a name—I still want that name!"

"Would you believe any name I gave you now? I could give you a dozen names—good Russian names—and they'd all be false—" Audley paused, "—because there is no name to give you, and there never was. Except one, and you knew that already—Richard von Hotzendorff—Richard von Hotzendorff first and last and all the way through."

Boselli stared at the Englishman.

"He took you for a ride—the clever Little Bird—and me too, and Eugenio Narva. He even took his wife for a ride. He made everyone do what he wanted—he even made Death change his plans. He chose a hill in Moscow and threw his little white pills away, his chlorothiazide and his digitalis—

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they found them lying in the gutter—and he ran and he ran up the hill. Not very far, but far enough to get where he wanted to go. And there wasn't any KGB man at his back either, just death catching up on him as he intended."

He looked Ruelle full in the face.

"He was getting old and he had nothing to show for it, so he thought—he was dying and he had nothing to give his wife and children. He couldn't even give them freedom, it took too much money. . . .

"So I think he sat down and he realised that he knew just one thing for sure—that one day soon his heart was going to give out on him and he was going to die. So he made a plan around that, so that he could use his death to make it believable—"

"But the oil? The North Sea?" Korbel interrupted feverishly.

"He knew about the oil—he knew it was there!"

"He didn't know. Nobody knew—not the experts, not the oilmen. They just thought it was there—they were giving sixty to forty—but they didn't know, because there wasn't any way of knowing and there still isn't. . . . But that didn't matter to him because he'd worked it out so he couldn't really lose—

because he'd chosen Eugenio Narva for his mark, and Narva's an honourable man. He reckoned even if he was wrong, Narva would see his widow right—and whichever way it went she'd be out of the East with the children. . . . Maybe he even reckoned that she was good-looking and Narva was a widower who liked children—but at the worst they'd be dummy2

better off. And if the oil was there—jackpot!"

"But how do you know this?" Korbel's voice was hoarse.

"I've talked to Narva, and to the woman—and the thing had the smell of a trick. Only I thought there was a Russian behind it somewhere." Audley shook his head slowly. "And then I talked to—a contact of mine who'd checked the man's death again. ... I never could understand why it had been made to look like a heart attack, I couldn't accept that it really was that until he told me about the pills and the hill.

And then I knew it wasn't a killing made to look like a natural death, but exactly the opposite—a self-induced natural death that no one would believe was natural."

The pills and the hill. Boselli had heard of them on the telephone tape, and they hadn't registered. And now he saw them in an altogether different sequence of events on the very margin of credibility, yet somehow more credible than anything he had heard before.

He could see incredulity in their faces, and then the dawning of bitter realisation.

And he knew instinctively why they understood, as the Englishman had gambled they would: Little Bird was getting old and he had nothing to show for it. And neither had they!

"The Russians haven't made a single big offshore strike since

'67," said Audley. "I tell you—we've been had, the lot of us."

They had grasped their opportunity just like the German, only with violence and without understanding. And above all dummy2

without sacrifice.

And for nothing!

"But I've managed to make a deal for you." Audley pointed suddenly towards Boselli. "This is Signor Pietro Boselli—he represents the Ministry of Justice." He snapped his fingers.

"The documents—"

Boselli reached hurriedly towards his pocket, and then froze as the gun came round towards him.

"Go on, Boselli—put it on the table!"

Carefully Boselli extracted the long envelope with his thumb and forefinger.

"A policeman was killed at Ostia, but his killer died too, so to save more bloodshed they're going to call that square—for forty-eight hours."

Korbel split open the flap of the envelope and emptied its contents on the table.

"Two passports," said Audley. "The pictures are from their files, but the names are blank. Work permits for Switzerland and Germany. Swiss francs and Deutschmarks—not many, but enough to keep you for a few weeks. And a letter from the Minister putting your forty-eight hours in black and white."

Korbel stared at the table wordlessly, but Ruelle's glare was still fixed on Audley.

Life and death was balanced on Ruelle—they had known that from the start. And now Ruelle was balanced on the edge of despair.

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"And one more thing," said Audley casually. "There's a letter."

He added a pale blue envelope to the other debris.

Korbel reached for the envelope.

"It's addressed—to you."

"Read it," said Ruelle.

Bastard—

He wouldn't read the superscription, Boselli hoped, remembering the General's face.

"In exchange for the lives of the woman and the bearers of this letter you will go free. I am required to give you my word of honour to this effect and I hereby do so. You owe me nothing for this, since it is against my advice—the lives of my men, —whom you betrayed, cannot be exchanged. It is my greatest wish that you will find these terms unacceptable—"

XVIII

"AND SO YOU were there when it happened?"

Richardson stared out over the treetops. The rain had damped down the exhaust fumes, bringing out the damp leafy smell of the Park. England—even London—was so much greener than midsummer Italy, which now seemed such a world away. But no greener than Peter Richardson.

"Hardly that. . . ."

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He recognised the signs. Sir Frederick was in the mood for all the ghoulish details, like an old rugby club buff sniffing the tale of an away win, and he would have to be satisfied one way or another.

". . . We'd pissed around a bit. It was maybe twenty minutes later that we caught up with where it happened. ..."

Montuori had been laying down the ruddy law. Christ—he'd been working on the Bastard's epitaph, and the ink hardly dry on his word of honour—

"Which he kept, Peter—don't forget that. Not one finger did he lift against them!"

Richardson realised that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. He must be losing his little grip at last, then.

"He didn't need to, did he?"

"Ah, but that was the whole point of it. He understood that."

The whole point.

Sir Frederick smiled. "Montuori is a soldier, but he's also very much a political animal, and David knew that. . . . He's been itching to get Ruelle for years, only the man was a partisan hero, and a communist one too. If he'd done it himself there would have been awkward questions. So he couldn't resist the deal."

"And Ruelle?"

"Ruelle was the danger—" Sir Frederick paused judicially, "—

because he was much less predictable. But if you remind a dummy2

man like that how much he hates someone else, you do give him a reason for surviving. And that word of honour was a nice touch: Ruelle despised it, but he naturally trusted it nevertheless. I assume that was David's idea?"

Richardson nodded, poker-faced.

Sir Frederick nodded back. "Yes—David wanted his woman back, and he didn't much care how he did it. But he had to offer each of them something they couldn't resist in exchange. So of course he offered them each other."

Clever David. No word of honour for him; he played dirty just like Little Bird, and for the same driving personal reason. But that had been where Ruelle had underestimated his man: he'd reckoned David would do anything to get his woman back, but he'd miscalculated the vengeful limits of David's anything.

"David had a deal for everyone, in fact."

"But he also took the risk for everyone if it went wrong—and he was careful to cut you out of that, Peter."

Perhaps that had been part of the deal too, thought Richardson perversely: maybe David had calculated that what Sir Frederick himself couldn't resist was that ultimate acceptance of responsibility. Or was it more simply that he couldn't face surviving anything less than success this time?

Was that courage—or cowardice?

"And yet he took Montuori's man with him—instead of me?"

"That was to make it easier for Montuori if things went dummy2

wrong, Peter. It would have looked bad if Ruelle had started shooting and there hadn't been an Italian casualty. . . . But you still haven't told me what actually happened on the road

—"

On the road . . .

The mountain road had been hot and bumpy, and the dust from the Police jeep ahead had blown in through the window.

And he had still not really understood, and hadn't wanted to travel with the General, only David had made it plain that he wanted to be alone with his wife. . . .

"A crude fellow, but fortunately rather stupid," murmured the General at length.

He made it sound like an epitaph, thought Richardson.

"Now the man Hotzendorff, your Little Bird, he was not a crude fellow—to make a killing by dying to order! In fact for a German he was a man of quite remarkable imagination and I'm sorry not to have known him. . . . But then the prospect of extinction is said to have a sharpening effect on the mind, although that doesn't seem to have sharpened the Bastard's wits, I must say!"

The Police jeep was slowing down: there was a confusion of cars on the bend ahead.

"I thought you'd pulled off the roadblocks, Pietro?"

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Boselli peered ahead distractedly. "I gave the orders, General."

"Well, kindly go and see they are carried out. I have an appointment in Rome this evening."

Boselli slid out of the car and marched self-consciously towards the roadblock.

The General sat back. "Yes, a man of remarkable imagination. . . . You know, I wasn't going to tell Narva about him, but on reflection I think I shall. It will wound his pride, but that woman of Hotzendorff's is much too fine to waste—

she has good hips—and I think he's inhibited by his conscience, poor fool. Once he knows the truth there'll be no holding him. Besides—I rather like the idea of completing your Little Bird's work for him."

The General in the role of Cupid was an arresting thought which sustained Richardson until Boselli returned.

He looked oddly flustered.

"Well?"

"General—it is not a roadblock. There has been an accident."

"Indeed?"

"A car has gone over the edge, into the gorge. A car with four men in it—a pale green car—"

"A road accident," said the General dismissively. "Then there's no reason for us to be delayed. Get back there and tell them to clear the way."

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"But there is a peasant who says there was a lorry—" Boselli stopped as he saw the General's expression, swallowing the words quickly. "Yes, General."

For one elongated moment of realisation Richardson stared after him. Then he looked at the General accusingly.

"You gave them your word."

"I did," said the General.

"And now they're dead?"

"Very likely. But not at my hands, Captain—I gave my word."

The General was entirely relaxed, the very model of a cleanhanded, conscience-clear General. Yet one who had somehow contrived to pay all his debts in full, damn it!

"But you ruddy well knew what was going to happen?"

"I was confident that the Russians would do my work for me, Captain—if that's what you mean." The General regarded Richardson with fatherly tolerance. "They have never found private enterprise—forgivable."

The Russians.

Not the General, not Audley—and not the Pubblica Sicurezza or one of Sir Frederick's tame psychopaths. Nothing so messy as that: just the KGB settling everyone's account.

It was so obvious that it hurt—and so obvious why the General was smugly relaxed about it. In fact, all along he had been relaxed about it, ever since David—

"Kidnappers," murmured the General. "Kidnappers and dummy2

murderers and troublemakers—they don't need anyone's tears shed for them. And we couldn't have saved them in any case, not from their own side."

Not after David Audley had carefully and deliberately told the Russians everything, right down to the moment when the troublemakers would be set free in exchange for Faith; he had fingered them as accurately as any Murder Incorporated contract, signed and sealed.

And the General had understood perfectly that the offer was being made to him as well as to the Russians. All he had to do was to flush the target into the open for the KGB to hit, with no awkward questions to ask before or excuses to supply afterwards.

Nor explanations either. The beauty of the two-way deal David had made—if beauty was the right word for it—was that its true substance wasn't even written in the small print at the bottom, but between the lines where only those who were meant to read it would do so. Probably the General was only talking now because he didn't want the son of an old flame to get the wrong idea about the durability of his word of honour.

"Listen, my boy—" the General gave Richardson's arm a confiding squeeze, "—don't think I didn't want to take him, because I've wanted George Ruelle to myself since before you were even born. But what I'd like and what I want are two different things—one must never confuse desires with objectives. ... I wanted the Bastard dead, and he is dead at dummy2

last. When you are my age you will learn to be content with such compromises."

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