The Company of Saints (3 page)

‘The Gritti Palace,' he said. He stripped off his jacket; the heat was lapping over them. ‘Slowly,' he said. ‘Just idle along, I don't want to miss anything. Then pull up by the Gritti – I want to sketch the façade.'

‘Can't do that,' the boatman said. ‘There's no mooring place on the other side and you can't tie up there – it's a concession and I don't have it.' He said something in dialect that sounded, and was, a very vulgar curse.

‘Never mind,' Italy said. He had known about the mooring and the concession. ‘Just go there and take your time.' He checked his watch and reckoned they would reach the hotel just as the Cipriani boat pulled out. He sat crouched forward slightly as they made a leisurely way up the Grand Canal.

The boatman pointed out a few landmarks and then gave up when he saw that his passenger wasn't listening. Nor was he taking much interest in the palazzi on either side of them; his jacket had fallen off the seat and was lying in a patch of water at the bottom of the boat. He must remember to mop it up when this sullen craphead got out. He could get his feet wet, so far as he cared.

The Cipriani boat was just ahead of them. He could see the target very clearly, wearing white, sitting forward by the bow.

‘Why don't you have the concession?' He asked the question suddenly.

The driver turned to look at him. ‘Because I can't pay for it,' he said. ‘In Italy, you want something, you have to grease the other man's hand. You're an Italian, you ought to know that!'

‘I think the practice stinks,' the young man said. ‘Get up close, give the rich bastards a few waves.'

‘I'll lose my licence,' the Venetian said.

‘No wonder they get away with it.' Italy sounded contemptuous. ‘You looked as if you had balls. But still …'

It was a challenge no Italian could ignore. The accelerator drowned out the richness of the language, remarkable for its scope and imagery. The little boat cut close to the cruiser. He slipped the cylinder out of his pocket, leaned slightly over the side and trailed his hand in the water. It was a technique he had practised over and over again in simulated conditions. When to activate the magnetic device. The wash from the little vaporetto gently rocked the bigger boat. As they sped past, Italy pressed the tiny homing button and released the cylinder. The waves carried it backwards and the metal hull of the cruiser drew it inexorably through the water. He had seen the hurried screening of his target by the security men pretending to be passengers, when his little craft came close. Much good that human shield would do him now.

The Venetian said sullenly, ‘Where do you want to go?' No balls, eh …? He'd charge the pig double for that remark.

‘Get a move on,' the man said abruptly, looking over his shoulder. ‘Go to the Lido.' He hoped they'd get clear, but he had taken no chance of the mine going astray. He had released it within the distance of maximum accuracy.

What was the saying – the only reliable assassins are Bulgarians, because they blow themselves up as well? He checked his watch; they had gathered speed very quickly, partly because the Venetian was hoping it would upset his passenger. The little vaporetto was skimming out towards the lagoon. Italy felt a surge of panic in those last few seconds when he turned again to stare after the cruiser. Thirty seconds was the timing after the mine attached itself. He had turned round when the explosion boomed out, shaking the air and convulsing the water. A pall of thick black smoke rose into the air, shot through with piercing tongues of orange flame.

‘My God!' The Venetian swung the wheel and cut the engine. The little boat curved into a semicircle and then lost speed. ‘My God, what was that …?'

‘I don't know,' his passenger said. ‘It sounded as if something blew up.'

‘We should go back,' the driver said. ‘If it was a boat.'

‘What can we do? I want to go to the Lido.'

‘Then swim!' The Venetian's temper blazed. He wasn't going to drive off and leave the accident. Watermen didn't desert each other. Also he was curious.

He didn't get time to start the engine. The passenger killed him with a blow that broke his neck as if he had been a dangling rabbit.

The body slumped and he climbed over, pushing it aside, shoving it down and out of sight. He had exceeded his instructions. But never mind. There had been too much incident to let the man live. He would have remembered cutting in on the other boat, remembered the gibe that had made him break the law of the canals. It was better to kill him. Sirens were wailing close astern. There were boats converging on what lay behind. Nobody even glanced at the little taxi boat as it began its journey across the water. He saw a beach near the Lido; it was stony and uninviting. Nobody swam or sunbathed there when the gleaming sands of the huge public beach beckoned only a few hundred yards farther on. He cut the engine and took his time. He tied the dead man down with his own anchor; he found a box with a few tools and, kneeling on the floor, smashed a hole through the deck below the waterline. The sea gushed in. He switched on the engine and wedged the dead man against the wheel, the bows pointing out to sea. The boat began to move forward as he dived off the side. He trod water, watching her make way, listing as the hull filled up. She'd be well out from the shore by the time she sank. There was no craft in sight. Luck was on his side.
La bella fortuna
. He turned and swam towards the empty beach. When he reached it, the boat had vanished. He stripped and lay in the sun while his clothes dried – shirt, trousers, canvas shoes. The jacket was ruined. He bundled it over his arm when he set off. He caught a water bus back late in the afternoon.

Everyone hurried to see the signs of the disaster that had happened on the Grand Canal. Bits of blackened debris still floated, and the smoke and fumes hadn't cleared. Someone, God knows who, had dropped a wreath of red and white flowers onto the water, where Henry Franklyn, United States Secretary of Defence, had been blown to pieces just before one o'clock that day.

‘Well,' Humphrey Grant remarked, ‘you were complaining about things being too quiet. We'll have enough excitement now.'

Tim Johnson tried not to look pleased. Ever since the news came in on the telex, the adrenaline had been pumping through him. He had hunted with his uncle in Galway as a boy; the love of excitement and challenge had been born in him as he flew over jagged grey walls and galloped across the wild terrain. He still hunted at odd weekends, but it was not the same. Now he pursued human quarry.

Davina's telex had followed within an hour. Johnson was to fly to Venice immediately; Humphrey was to contact the Agenzia di Sicurezza and ask for full cooperation with their British colleagues. An explosives expert was to follow Johnson as quickly as possible.

‘I think Davina's pushing this too far,' Humphrey grumbled. ‘The Agenzia people are notoriously touchy about outsiders.'

‘They're notoriously inefficient too,' Johnson retorted. He detested the old boys' network attitude. Davina Graham didn't care whose toes she stepped on and he admired her for it. ‘I think it's a good idea.'

Humphrey didn't look up from his desk. ‘When you've worked with the Italians as long as I have,' he said, ‘you'll find they're as good in their way as anybody. What time's your plane?'

‘Six-thirty,' Johnson said. Patronizing old prune, he said to himself, looking at the balding top of Grant's head. Never looks you in the eye when he's giving out.

Grant's head came up and he stared at him as if he'd spoken out loud. ‘Then why don't you catch it?'

Johnson didn't bang the door. He didn't care about Humphrey. Humphrey had nowhere to go but the green fields of retirement.

His wife was waiting at Heathrow to see him off. She was very understanding about his job. They'd been married for seven years and had twin boys. Johnson loved his family. As they kissed he said, ‘Darling, I don't know when I'll be back. I'll bring the boys something.'

Four hours later he was met by a senior officer of the Italian anti-terrorist squad and driven by private launch to the Gritti Palace Hotel.

‘I'm sorry about this,' Davina said. ‘I'm afraid our holiday's gone up in smoke.'

Walden held her hand. ‘Of course it has.' He looked shaken, sallow with shock under the suntan. ‘I can't stop thinking about it,' he said. ‘We could have been on that launch.'

‘Not a chance,' Davina answered quietly. ‘Everyone on board was part of Franklyn's security guard. Nobody got a place on any boat when he was in it. They saw to that.'

He looked up at her suddenly. ‘You knew he was staying here?'

‘Yes, I knew. I recognized him when he walked into the restaurant last week. He had his daughter with him. The wife died last year.'

‘Why didn't you say anything?' He sounded subdued.

Davina was surprised at how much the tragedy had shaken him. She said very gently, ‘Darling, I didn't say anything because I couldn't. What was the point? Franklyn was travelling incognito, showing the poor girl round Europe. The whole thing was being kept as quiet as possible to give them a chance to enjoy themselves. He's not a well-known face; he never went on TV like a lot of them. They were very tightly screened, and it might well have worked.'

‘But it didn't,' Walden countered. ‘Somebody knew who he was all right and the so-called bloody screen didn't stop them being blown up in broad daylight on the Grand Canal! Why can't you go home and let this Tim Johnson take over out here? What good can
you
do?'

‘I don't know,' she admitted. ‘But I was on the scene and Johnson wasn't. You're not worrying about me, are you? Tony, for God's sake, don't be silly. I'm not in any danger.'

He said angrily, ‘If they knew about Franklyn, what's to stop them having a go at you?'

‘Nothing,' she said. ‘Except it doesn't work like that. The bosses don't attack each other. That's the unwritten law. I don't worry about Borisov having a crack at me; Brunson at CIA doesn't either; Borisov doesn't worry about us. Nobody has ever broken that rule. It's understood.'

‘In other words, Franklyn was murdered by the KGB?' He had turned away from her, looking out of the window. It was dark, but the torches of the river police were playing over the water outside. The area where the boat had blown up was roped off up to a hundred yards on either side. Water traffic passing by was limited to three knots. No flights had been allowed out of Marco Polo airport; the railway link with the mainland was closed. ‘The radio said it was a terrorist organization.'

‘That's a pretty good description of the KGB,' Davina answered. She came up to him. ‘Tony, you mustn't let this get on top of you. You've always known what I did. You know as well as I do, there are risks involved. But not for me. That's the irony of the damned job. We're the generals – we don't get into the firing line. Now please, come on. Let's go down and have a drink and wait for Johnson.'

‘It'll be crawling with police,' Walden muttered. ‘The place is full of them. I'd like to move.'

‘All right, we will, as soon as I've seen Tim.'

He put his arms round her and held her for a moment. ‘I love you so much,' he said. ‘That's the trouble.'

‘The trouble,' Davina said, ‘would be if you stopped. One day, I'll tell you just how pointless my life would be without you. Now, let's go down, shall we?'

The bar was full. The trade in drinks had been brisk ever since the police said the hotel could function normally. Statements had been taken from the guests and staff. Davina and Walden were excused after Davina identified herself. They would confer with the head of Security. He had set up his headquarters in the Agenziadi Polizia in the Via Leonardo da Vinci. There was only one topic of conversation among the American, British and German tourists; the Italians kept themselves in a group, embarrassed and shamed by what had happened. Davina and Walden were drawn in in spite of their efforts to tuck themselves into a corner.

‘How dreadful,' a pretty young English girl kept saying, ‘How ghastly.…'

‘It's the Red Brigade,' her husband insisted. ‘Just like they killed that other poor devil – the politician – what's his name?'

‘Aldo Moro,' Davina suggested.

‘That's right. Bloody savages, that's what those people are. The Germans had the right idea. They knew how to deal with the Baader, whatever it was, group.'

‘Baader–Meinhof,' Davina said again.

‘That's right,' he repeated. ‘They hanged themselves in prison, or so the Germans said.'

‘We were out when it happened,' the pretty girl was saying to Walden, leaning close towards him as if they were all conspirators. ‘I don't think I want to stay here now. I keep thinking about it – did you see all those awful bits floating around on the canal?'

‘There's Tim,' Davina interrupted. She smiled briefly at the couple. ‘Excuse us. Good night.'

It surprised her how well Johnson and Tony Walden got on. They talked about the flight, Johnson made a joke at the expense of the local carabinieri which made Walden laugh, and after that he seemed to relax. They went upstairs to the suite where Johnson opened the window and leaned out. The lights were playing over the black water; a gondola with a load of tourists came close enough for the serenade ‘O Sole Mio' to float like a lament over the hum of passing launches.

‘I don't know what they expect to find by now,' Johnson remarked. ‘I gather there wasn't much left to bury. Analysis will tell us what sort of explosive they used.'

‘Does it matter?' Walden queried.

‘It could be a pointer,' Johnson explained. ‘The more sophisticated the device, the easier to eliminate groups that can't get hold of it.'