Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (12 page)

‘Only for the designation of source,’ whimpered Hotovy. ‘And that was Cape Town: Rome was never mentioned.’

Kalenin went to the microphone linking him to the men standing over the woman and boys, on the other side of the screen. Hotovy moaned again when he saw the Russian reach out for the control switch.

‘What about Rome?’ persisted Kalenin.

‘I don’t know anything about Rome!’ wailed Hotovy. ‘On my life!’

‘It’s not your life,’ said Kalenin, ‘it’s theirs.’

‘I don’t know
anything
about Rome. For God’s sake, believe me!’

Kalenin did. Which meant the damage was no more extensive than he already knew it to be. Abruptly he turned on his heel and left the room.

The chief doctor caught up with him at the lift entrance. ‘That was a massive stimulant,’ said the man. ‘I’d guess a collapse, almost at once. It’ll be severe.’

Kalenin turned, as the doors opened. ‘He’s not important any more,’ he said.

Richard Semingford was a precise, neat man, given to blazers with club buttons and ties, club-striped too. He had a close-clipped beard, and on the first night they had slept together in her apartment Jane Williams had produced a picture of her bearded father in naval uniform, and they’d tried to remember the opposite of an Oedipus complex and failed. They had made love there again tonight but not well and now they lay in the darkness, side by side but untouching.

‘You didn’t have to buy the meal,’ he said.

‘I know things aren’t easy,’ she said.

‘It costs a lot, maintaining Ann’s mother in that damned old people’s home. And there are a lot of things the Foreign Office doesn’t pay for, with the kids’ schooling.’

‘I said I don’t mind,’ she reminded him.

‘I do.’

She felt out for his hand. ‘You shouldn’t. I love you and I understand.’

‘I want to ask Ann for a divorce.’

‘Is that sensible?’

‘No.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘She might have relaxed her Catholic principles to marry a Protestant but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t about divorce.’

‘So what’s the point?’

‘Permission isn’t necessary any more.’

‘She could still make it unpleasant: the Foreign Office doesn’t like personal unpleasantness, you know.’

‘She might not, if she thought she was being properly provided for.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘And how could you do that, darling? You can’t manage as it is.’

His hand tightened upon hers. ‘That’s the bloody problem,’ he said. ‘It’s always money.’

She tried to think of something to break his mood and said, ‘We had an awful man out at the villa.’

‘Who?’

‘Some insurance assessor, checking Lady Billington’s jewellery. Frightful person.’

‘What was wrong with him?’

‘Cocksure, for a start. Literally. I could practically feel his hand up my skirt.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘I never bothered to find out. I used to see men like him wandering the streets of Portsmouth and Chatham when daddy was on base, stumbling from pub to pub and leering at any girl they saw.’ Once more, the morning’s indignation was building up within her. ‘Bloody cats made him sneeze and I had to look after the damned things.’

‘What did Lady Billington think?’

‘You know her. The social conscience of the world! She thinks everyone’s wonderful.’

‘Mustn’t it be marvellous to have the Billingtons’ money?’ said Semingford. ‘Never again having to bother about end-of-month sums on the backs of envelopes.’

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Because you never had to.’ He regretted it at once and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does and I’m sorry: really I am. I’ll get the money and divorce Ann.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Don’t patronize me.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘But you did.’

‘And you were rude.’

‘I meant it, about divorcing Ann,’ he said.

‘Don’t do anything silly, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m happy enough, the way things are.’

‘I’m not,’ he said grim-faced.

13

In his initial panic, Fantani ran halfway across the bedroom, which was a mistake. By the time he’d realized it, they were outside, so there was nothing he could do but make for the dressing room. He was caught like a rat in a trap! And with nowhere to hide. He couldn’t risk any of the closets because they might be opened on him. The extravagantly lighted dressing table was built into the wall, with no gap for concealment. And there was no cover by the desk. He heard the outer door open and close in the adjoining room and the light drove a silver brightness beneath the door. Almost at once there was the sound of the far door to the woman’s room and then the light snapped on.

There was only the window area. It was the part of the room he’d studied least of all, vaguely remembering an ornate couch and heavy drapes. He felt out, sliding his foot gently across the carpeting to avoid a noisy collision. He brushed lightly into the chaise longue, groping down for the arm and sweeping his hand cautiously before him, to ensure his path was clear. Suddenly he felt velvet between his fingers. He reached behind the curtains, every nerve end strained for a place beyond. There was a space! Groping blindly, his hands hit the sharp edge of the Venetian blinds; they rattled slightly against the window and Fantani jerked back. His next move was more cautious, easing the curtains apart and then feeling forward to gauge the distance. A metre, no more: hardly a body width. And with the blinds at his back ready to clatter if he relaxed for a moment. Fantani pressed through, pulling himself sideways at the sound of footfalls. At once the room flooded with light and Fantani closed his eyes in despair. There was a parting between the curtain edges, where he’d failed to close them; the light shafted through against the window, providing him with a perfect reflection of the room. And if either one looked too closely into the extensive, brightly lit mirroring against the wall of the dressing room, they would see him.

It was a woman and she was naked, the evening gown crumpled in her hand. She tossed it onto the couch on her way to the dressing table. Not completely naked, he corrected; there were still the rings and the ruby choker and the matching earrings. She began leisurely to unfasten them, concentrating not upon what she was doing but upon her body. About forty-five, estimated Fantani with professional expertise. But she’d taken care. There was hardly any droop to her ass and she’d retained the muscle control of her stomach, so that there was no unsightly bulge when she relaxed. She tossed one earring onto the table in front of her and cupped a full breast in either hand, lifting them, so the nipples rose like the noses of inquiring puppies.

‘Hector!’ she called.

‘What?’ came a muffled voice.

‘I’m sure that woman with the German ambassador has had her breasts lifted.’

‘It was his wife.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Didn’t think you knew who she was.’

‘Of course I knew who she was. Do you think she has?’

‘What?’

‘Had her breasts lifted?’

‘I didn’t look.’

‘With a dress like that it was hardly necessary. I wonder if it hurts?’

Fantani heard but didn’t see the other door open into the room. ‘How should I know?’

The man came into view; he was wearing a robe but his socks were still supported by old fashioned suspenders, secured in an elasticized band just beneath the knee.

‘I sag,’ complained the woman. ‘Do you think I sag?’

‘Let go.’

She lowered her hands and her breasts slumped.

‘They’re fine.’

‘Sometimes dresses are better without a bra.’

‘Middle-aged wives of ambassadors don’t walk about with their nipples sticking out. And they don’t stay so close to the cocktail waiter.’

She unfastened the other earring, then the necklace, and began creaming the make-up from her face. ‘I’ve never let you down.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Frightened that I might?’

‘I just wish you’d cut it down a little.’

Fantani’s body began to ache with the effort of holding himself away from the blinds and his legs began to shake. Get out, he prayed, desperately; in the name of Jesus and Mary, get out!

‘You’re not worried about something, are you?’ he said.

‘Of course not.’

‘I’d like you to be careful over the next few weeks,’ said Billington. ‘We’re going to be under the microscope, because of this damned Summit.’

‘Will we have to stay at the official residence in Rome?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t like it there.’

‘It’s only for a short while.’

‘Those receptions and banquets and dinners are so boring; how the hell do you expect me not to drink?’

He moved, so that he was between her and the mirror. ‘I expect you to support me, as a wife,’ he said.

She put down a mascara-stained ball of cotton wool.

‘Haven’t I always?’

‘You have and I’m grateful,’ said Billington. ‘I just don’t want there to be any mistakes. It’s important.’

‘For promotion, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘I won’t do anything to hurt you,’ she said solemnly.

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you too.’

‘I’m sorry you’re not happy.’ The ambassador moved away from Fantani’s view.

‘What about the jewellery?’ she called after him. ‘Shouldn’t it be put away?’

Fantani winced. Distantly the man’s voice said, ‘In the morning.’

‘Goodnight then,’ she called.

‘Goodnight.’

The light in the dressing room went out as abruptly as it had come on and Fantani tottered forward against the back of the couch to take the strain from his legs. He was thoroughly cramped, like he’d been sometimes as a child when the snows came to Calabria and the cold had eaten into his body, numbing him so badly it was difficult to walk. Still nervously alert for any sound, he lowered himself into a kneeling position, as if he were praying. He swallowed hard to prevent the sob, clamping his lips between his teeth against any breakdown. Gradually the spasms eased and he rolled over to rest his back against the rear of the couch.

It was two hours before Fantani considered it safe to move. He was fully recovered by then, as careful as he had been when he first entered. The ambassador had left the dressing-room door open. Fantani waited until he had located the man’s slow, easy breathing and then padded swiftly across to the outer door. Soundlessly he tiptoed down the marble staircase and, when he got to the drawing-room windows, his hinged entry spots were as he had left them. In the garden he stopped, dragging the cold air into his lungs. Almost done it, he thought: almost but not quite. He found the cypress grove, and slipped swiftly down the utterly black avenue to the wall. At the cliff face he turned his back to the sea and paced five steps inland. Having established his marker he turned to the wall, cupped the silk bag in his hand and, like a basketball player going for a goal, hefted the jewellery high over the electrified barrier. With a sense of relief he heard it crunch on the other side.

Getting back was not going to be easy. The villa lights had been dimmed. There was no moon and, although he was close enough to reach out to feel its attachment to the wall, he had to peer out to locate the blacker outline arching over the cliff. At least the breeze had dropped. Fantani breathed in deeply, tensed and threw himself into the blackness. He didn’t land flat, as he had before, but instead jarred into the web with the left side of his body. He failed to get a foothold and for a second hung only by his left hand. He felt the grip being torn away by the weight of his body and swung his right hand around desperately for support.

And impaled his hand upon one of the spear heads.

He gasped at the pain, feeling the metal drive into his flesh. He pulled away, conscious of the skin ripping and managed to crook his almost numbed fingers around a spoke. His body hung suspended at the furthest point of the half-web and directly over the drop. He could feel the blood running back along his arm. He twitched his feet in tiny sideways movements to get a foothold. With his left foot he managed to lever himself up, sticking both arms through the bars and then curving them, so one hand was free to discover how badly hurt he was. The point had driven through the gloves, almost at the centre of the palm, like one of the sacrificial wounds in the church models of Jesus that his mother had made him pray before when he went to confession. He clamped his mouth shut against the moan. Dear God, it hurt; it hurt more than anything he’d ever known before. He was bleeding heavily and the fingers were stiffening. There was hardly any grip in his right hand, so he had to press his body tight against the sharpened tips. They scraped his face and he felt the cotton of his windcheater split. He made the turn and stopped again, his arms holding him. He couldn’t manage it much longer: the numbness was spreading from his hand, into his wrist. He crabbed towards the cliff but pushed his body first this time. He got as far as his waist when his foot slipped and his legs slipped away from the metalwork, dangling over the edge. Fantani snatched out with his uninjured hand, locking his fingers into a bracken outcrop. He heaved up and, wedging his elbows beneath his body, dragged the rest of his body to safety.

He rolled away from the rim and lay on his back. He was crying at the effort, tears mixing with the sweat and itching his face. He let the emotion flood out, needing the release. He got up at last, pulling awkwardly with his left hand at the jacket zip and slotting his right arm into it, to create a makeshift sling. Reluctantly he went to the edge, paced in five steps and stopped, putting his good hand over the wet grass. He quickly located the jewellery and wedged it beneath his left arm.

The lightness of dawn was already showing to the east as he took the car along the Ostia road and then turned inland towards Rome. The feeling had practically gone from his hand and the lightheadedness he knew from marijuana and cocaine made him giggle aloud, careless at the closeness of hysteria. He’d done it!

The night-duty man contacted Harkness at home and the deputy decided the importance justified the use of an insecure line, telephoning the director in Hampshire. Wilson answered on the second ring.