The Dark Chronicles (50 page)

Christ.

The bombs in Milan: the Fiat stand and the other one. They hadn’t been Arte come Terrore either, of course. Zimotti’s lot had been responsible, and they had framed Arte come Terrore and others for it, just as the Service had done with Farraday’s death. It was part and parcel of the same thing, a continuation of the shenanigans Osborne had been up to in Nigeria. Italy had the largest Communist party in Western Europe: what better way to keep them out of power here than by carrying out attacks on civilians and blaming them on Red groups? The Communists’ support at the ballot box would plummet, and any security measures Zimotti and his cadre wanted to introduce to counter the threat would be welcomed with open arms.

So there
was
a plan for a campaign of attacks: a campaign to be committed by Italian military intelligence. And the Service was providing the support – with American help, perhaps? As Deputy Chief, presumably they would have considered indoctrinating me into the operation, to stop me asking too many awkward questions if I came across material that didn’t make sense. But in the end they had decided they couldn’t trust me at all, and that I was better off dead. Better off, in fact, as another rung
in
the plan. Kill me and blame it on the Communists – perfect. Only they had missed.

And now? Now they wanted to know whether Barchetti had told me about any of this – but why were they so desperate? There could only be one reason, I realized: another attack was imminent.

I turned my focus back to Severn and Zimotti. I guessed they had tried to find out from Pyotr if he knew anything about the plan. Perhaps they hadn’t been successful, but they had shot him just in case. Now all they wanted from me – apart from the personal satisfaction of tearing me limb from limb – was to discover whether Barchetti had unwittingly revealed the conspiracy to me, and whether or not I had told anyone else about it. Well, perhaps I should just tell them he had. What difference did it make either way? I couldn’t stop whatever it was they were planning, for the
simple reason that I didn’t know what it was. But no – if I revealed I knew about the plan, they would kill me. The other night in the embassy Sarah had told me I was brave, that not many people would have risked their own skins chasing down a sniper. But, of course, the only reason I had chased him was to save my own skin. All I cared about was saving my own skin.

There was a noise and I looked up at Severn. I suddenly noticed another figure standing behind him. He was wearing flannel trousers and a dickie bow, and he looked very angry.

‘Hello, Paul,’ he said. ‘Thought you could kill me, did you?’

It was Colin Templeton.

Ignore
. It was a hallucination caused by the drugs, that was all: mental pictures fished from the parieto-occipital region of the brain, my visual mechanisms out of control, creating scenes that the subconscious had been avoiding, that the core of my psyche was terrified of confronting. Pink elephants occurring to a man terrified of elephants, a man in the pink…

I was entering Plane Three now – thoughts disrupted, difficulty in forming new thoughts. This was their access area, their point of penetration. But Plane Three only lasts a few minutes. It can be prolonged with further injections – how many had they given me, I wondered – but not for very long. I had to get through the next few minutes without giving away that I was on to them. I had to pretend to be… what? Well, they knew I was a double. Tell them about that, then. Bore them with it.

‘I was recruited in 1945,’ I announced. ‘By a woman called Anna Maleva. She was a nurse at the Red Cross hospital in—’

‘We know about all that,’ snapped Severn. ‘We want to know about more recent events. Why did you meet with this man Valougny?’

‘That was his idea,’ I said, unable to stop myself from blurting it out. ‘He met me.’ Change the subject. You’re a double agent. Bore them. ‘He’s the local control, you see. Sasha couldn’t make it in London. He didn’t answer the call, nobody answered the—’

‘What did Valougny want from you?’

‘He wanted me to kill Barchetti.’

‘Why?’

They didn’t even care. Didn’t care that I’d killed one of their own.

‘Because…’

‘Yes?’

Think.

‘Because Barchetti knew about him.’

‘What do you mean? That he had blown his cover?’

‘Yes. Exactly. Pyotr – that’s his name, or the name he gave me anyway – was worried, because Barchetti had discovered his identity and he was sure he was compromised, so he needed him killed. I told him you were due to meet him and he ordered me to go instead, said it was the perfect opportunity.’

Silence again. Then more whispering. The prick of a needle. And darkness.

*

I came back to consciousness to discover I was being dragged by my feet. I lifted my head as much as I could, as my back scraped against the floor. The man carrying me was panting and grunting, and I could hear shouting in guttural Italian. Above me swung a never-ending stream of lights, and I realized I was being dragged down a long corridor. Finally there was the jangling of keys, the clicking of a lock, and I was plunged into darkness again.

‘
Bene
,’ I heard a voice say. ‘Leave him there.’

My body fell, bones crunching as my spine hit the floor.

I opened my eyes. My vision was still somewhat blurry, but I could see a fierce-looking brown face with a beak for a nose and bloodshot eyes. He was deeply tanned all over, like polished mahogany, and his eyes were sharp little pellets in his skull. Zimotti’s chief enforcer and chair-carrier. Behind him was Barnes, gripping a brutish-looking sub-machine gun. They talked between themselves
for a few moments, but too low for me to hear, and then they went out, leaving me in my private world of pain.

I managed to sit up, and touched the back of my head: it was sticky with blood. I was dizzy from hunger and thirst, although it was still the craving for tobacco that hovered utmost in my mind. I knew if I even thought about any of that I would go mad, so I rocked back and forth on my haunches, whimpering lines from a hymn I’d sung at Templeton’s service:

My vision gradually began to clear, and I looked around. It looked very similar to the first cell, only the dimensions seemed slightly different: a little squarer. There was a pile of grey matter in one corner of the room, and I crawled towards it frantically, hoping it might be food or drink. But as I got closer, I saw with horror that it was a body, laid out like a corpse. At first I thought it might be Pyotr, but then I saw a curl of blonde hair, and realized it was her.

‘Sarah,’ I whispered.

No response.

I lifted myself onto my elbows and slowly crawled nearer, willing the pain in my neck and spine away. Her nostrils flared as the breath came in and out: she was alive, but either in a deep sleep or unconscious. She was wearing the same clothes I’d last seen her in, back at Pyotr’s flat, only they were now torn and spotted with blood. Her skin was yellowish, and mottled and dark under her eyes. Finally, I saw the deep welts that criss-crossed her shoulders and neck. He had used the cat on her, too. A wave of revulsion swept over me, which swiftly turned to a cold rage. He had tortured his own wife.

I retreated slowly to the nearest corner to gather my thoughts. I wondered how many Severn and Zimotti would kill to get their way. Hundreds? Thousands? The goal would be a dictatorship, with Zimotti either the head of it or part of the leadership. It would be a coup, effectively, albeit a gradual and undeclared one. Italy had seen coups before, of course, but nothing like this. After a few large-scale attacks and swift arrests, Zimotti and his men would be able to introduce whatever measures they felt necessary, while a pliant and terrified public would greet them with open arms. And the British were apparently lending a hand, through their man in Rome. It seemed extraordinary, but I realized that I hadn’t been paying close enough attention. There was a very powerful right-wing
faction operating within the Service. Perhaps more of a movement than a faction. They had tried to take control of the government but failed – because of me. Perhaps they were planning a similar series of attacks in England, blaming everything on the First of May or similar groups. Perhaps Italy was just the beginning…

Something in me turned. This wasn’t where my life should end. I hadn’t
helped
. I had spent it trying to divine the difference between causes, but I hadn’t seen the forest for the trees. East and West, I now knew, were just two frightened children spurring each other on to greater and greater acts of excess. But I was no better, standing on the edge of the field pointing out their mistakes. I had to get onto the pitch, into the game. I had to put aside all my cynicism and stupid bloody English pride and admit that there were choices here, and that I could make a difference to the situation. Where was the shame in that? Why was I so afraid of it? Here was the opportunity: a chance to save others, and atone for all the men I’d betrayed.

No. That was still selfish thinking. I glanced across at Sarah, her chest rising and falling. I wondered what she would think were she to know who I really was. Utter contempt, I was sure. Nothing could wash the blood from my hands or atone for those I had betrayed – for Colin Templeton, or Vanessa, or Isabelle. But I could save others from their fate, and stop a gang of power-hungry men taking this country over, simply because
it was the right thing to do.

Moscow hadn’t tried to kill me, after all – but they would now. I had deliberately exposed one of their men and got him tortured and, it appeared, killed as a result. Even if they were prepared to let that go and still wanted to use me, I didn’t want them any more, and they no longer had anything to blackmail me with: the Service knew who I was now. I realized that I had become unmoored from both sides and no longer had anyone to blame for my actions but myself – that I was, finally, living up to my codename: independent, a free agent. But what to do with that new-found freedom? Run
to ground? Or fight back – and create my own side? I had to, or I was lost forever.

I shook my head suddenly: the only thing that was unmoored was my mind. I wasn’t free at all, and had no way of creating any
side
. I was not only imprisoned, but hours or perhaps minutes from death. The guards would return soon, and for the last time.

I looked across at Sarah again, and wondered why had they put me in here with her. On the face of it, it was a weak move, as we could conspire together, perhaps even help each other escape. On the face of it. In reality, of course, we were in a secured cell inside a military base that was doubtlessly manned by hundreds of soldiers; she was unconscious; and I was nearing the point of physical and mental collapse. There was no bucket or bed or food or anything else in this room, so it looked like they were only planning to hold us here for a short while before killing us. Severn had thrown me in here with her because it no longer mattered to him if she knew of his plans, or that she might tell me them. He had discarded us both.

So how would they end it, then? A bullet to the head, like Pyotr? That might well be the plan. But where had Severn and Zimotti disappeared to in the meantime? Perhaps they had left to oversee the next stage in their grand scheme, the next attack. Or perhaps it was now the middle of the night, and they were simply catching up on their sleep before returning for some more games in the morning. Yes, a bullet to the head would be too easy. They would have a slow and painful death in mind for me…

Perhaps it was the awareness that I hadn’t long to live, or perhaps my nascent conscience, but my mind latched on to the idea that they had disappeared to execute the next attack, and refused to let it go. Hypothetically speaking, it asked, if you
were
somehow able to escape, how could you help, how could you stop them? What would the man you might have been do? What would the man Colin Templeton had believed you were do? Well, perhaps he’d try to get in touch with London, reach Haggard and tell him what was
happening. No, I realized at once, that would be pointless. I was an exposed double agent. Haggard would never believe me. Yes, but exposed in what way? The only proof they had of my treachery depended on their admitting that they had murdered Farraday. A chink of understanding opened in my mind. Was that why they needed a confession from me – to block any remaining chance I could expose them? Was that why I was here, and not in London? They could extract a confession, then see that I didn’t live much beyond it. And sort out the paperwork later.

Perhaps. But my confession hadn’t seemed paramount. Regardless, I didn’t trust taking this to Haggard, or anyone else. I would have to find out what they were planning and address it myself.

I stopped, and glanced at Sarah once again. I thought of her walking down the corridor, her hips swinging in front of me, asking if I wanted to see the Station. She must have wanted to take me there for a reason. Could it be that she knew what they were planning?

I crawled over to her and stared at her face, pale and gaunt from the stress and fear. I felt her pulse. She was sleeping, not unconscious. She needed her rest. I shouldn’t wake her.

But somewhere outside these walls, a bomb might be ticking down.

I shook her shoulder gently, and her eyes opened. The moment she saw me she started sobbing.

*

It took some time for her to stop, but when she did it was almost frightening how calm she was, as if utterly detached from the world. I left her alone, fearing the worst, but eventually she called out to me. ‘I think we need to talk,’ she said, and I couldn’t help smiling at the matter-of-factness of it.

At first I insisted we only communicate in whispers. I was afraid that the whole thing might be some sort of a set-up so Severn could learn what it was she knew – the place was almost certainly bugged.
But it soon became clear she had told him everything already. She didn’t say what he had done to extract the information, and I didn’t ask, but we both knew we had been left here to die, and therefore had nothing to lose from telling each other all we knew. Her voice was hoarse, as was mine, and we spoke quickly and frantically, uncertain how long we had before Barnes and his friend returned.