Walkinshaw appeared and ran towards the car with a paper cup, water streaming over his dome-like head. Webb lacked the energy to open his door. He handed a hot chocolate carefully to Webb, before settling into the car.
Walkinshaw sipped at his drink. “I have never seen anyone so exhausted.”
“I’m more concerned about you, Mister Walkinshaw. I don’t believe you’re a civil servant.”
“Actually, I’m a pianist in a brothel,” said Walkinshaw. Webb assumed it was a joke.
“And there is no Walkinshaw at the Department of Information Research. I checked.”
Walkinshaw’s face was a picture of injured innocence. “So? There might have been. Sir Bertrand is disappointed in you, Webb. He thinks you’re off on some eccentric tangent.”
“I probably am. I also believe someone on the team is trying to screw us up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Finish your chocolate.”
Webb had scarcely done so before, once again, he flaked out.
He wakened again in the late afternoon, stretched out on the soft leather. The morning rain had gone and the sky was blue. Webb sat up. The terrible exhaustion had eased but he felt as if his blood had been drained off and replaced with water.
They were speeding over a cobbled road, with Trajan’s Column on the left, the Roman forum to their right and the Colosseum straight ahead. There was a mechanized chariot race around the Colosseum but Walkinshaw took it in his stride. They stopped at traffic lights, the lights turned green, and the traffic made a Brand’s Hatch start. Walkinshaw weaved swiftly up to the head of the traffic. The Appia Antica appeared ahead but they suddenly screamed off round a corner.
In minutes they had cleared the suburbs of Rome and were hurtling towards a large hill town some miles ahead. “Frascati,” Walkinshaw said. “The Embassy have given us the use of a house just beyond there.”
They trickled through the town and then started to climb through a winding road. There were signs for Tuscolo and Monte Porzio. Ahead, Webb glimpsed a cathedral dome straddling the summit of a hill some miles ahead, with ancient houses clustered around it like cygnets around a swan. The Spyder cannoned up the narrow road, and Webb’s knuckles showed white against the dashboard, and his scrotum thought it was being squeezed by a gorilla. At last the car growled and slowed, and they stopped at the large metal gates of a white villa.
Walkinshaw searched under some stones and triumphantly produced some keys. Then they were up a short, steep drive. There was a balcony, big enough to hold a party on, looking down on a panorama which probably had not changed in a thousand years.
“This belongs to one of the Embassy staff. It’s probably a safe house, and in any case we only need it for a few hours. However you are still Mister Fish, and you still look like a corpse in a freezer. Would you like to rest awhile?”
“I daren’t.”
He was aroused by sunlight on his eyes. He was in a king-sized bed. Cherubim hovered over him, and a saintly, bearded figure in the ornate ceiling had raised a glass of wine. A chandelier of pink Venetian glass was suspended almost overhead. Twin dragons guarded a wardrobe about twelve feet long underneath a mirror of similar size. He had a quick shower in an old-fashioned bathroom about the size of his Oxford flat, and found his way to a downstairs lounge. Walkinshaw was contemplating a lurid female photograph in a magazine. He stood up as Webb approached.
“Ah, much better. You no longer look like death warmed up.”
“What time is it?” Webb asked.
“Just after five o’clock. You’ve been out for an hour.”
“Oh my God. I have to get to a monastery. It’s not too far from here.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. I’m a solitary scholar researching a manuscript. And you look like something out of MI5.”
“At least I’ll give you a lift, time being what it is.”
Webb opened the car window and glanced at his watch. The plain of Rome stretched into the distance on his left, with its wonderful city shimmering in the haze. Beyond, the long spine of the Abruzzi Hills stretched to the south. The air blowing in the window was warm and scented, and the sky was blue.
And he had fifteen hours.
The Apiary
It was a fifteen-minute drive up a steep, narrow, tree-lined road. The monastery was contained within a wall about fifteen feet high, part of which was also the front of a church. A white marble saint with a lightning conductor running down his back stood atop its steepled roof. Behind the wall a tall bell-tower dominated the skyline.
There was a crowded car park. Walkinshaw put the seat back and covered his eyes with his ridiculous Tyrolean hat. Webb followed a family into what seemed to be a porter’s lodge, and passed through it to a shop, where he was met by the scents of a thousand flowers. A brisk trade in honey, royal jelly and some translucent green liqueur was under way, while the Virgin Mary, captured on canvas, stood with her eyes raised to Heaven and arms crossed on the wall behind the counter. Webb tried out his Italian: “I’d like to speak to the Father Abbot, please.”
The white-robed monk behind the counter raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “You have made an appointment?”
“Yes,” Webb lied. “But I’m only in Italy for a few hours.”
“Un àttimo.”
A few minutes later the monk reappeared. With him was an older man, nearly bald, with a ruddy face and a smile which, Webb thought, was less than wholly welcoming. “I’m Father O’Doyle,” he said in an American English with a strong hint of Irish. “The Father Abbot is in chapel but I’m responsible for visitors. No visitors are pencilled in to my diary for today. When did you write?”
“About six weeks ago,” Webb lied again. “My name is Fish. I’m from Cambridge. I’m trying to trace a book.”
“Ah, that explains it. You want the Father Librarian. Come with me.”
Webb followed the American monk out to the car park and back in through the church. About halfway down he led Webb off to a transept, produced a large key and unlocked a door. There was a short stretch of corridor. Webb noted a door, with an alarm and lights over it, protected by three locks. The monk caught Webb’s curious stare. “Our sacristy,” he said.
Through another locked door, Webb found himself outside again, in a large, square cloister. Father O’Doyle led the way along the covered cloister-walk. Webb was surprised to find Christmas lights and decorations strung between the pillars lining the walk. Faces looked down at them from barred windows. “Oblates,” the monk said, waving up.
They turned off and climbed some stairs. A handful of white-robed monks, hoods down, passed silently. Through a door, Webb found himself in a modern library. A few teenage students were scattered around desks. “I will leave you in the capable hands of our librarian.”
The librarian had the physique of a rugby player, but the muscle was turning to fat and his face was pale.
Webb tried out his rusty Italian. “My name is Larry Fish. I’m from Cambridge in England. I’m doing some historical research and have been directed to your library. I wrote some weeks ago.”
“I do not recall your letter. Did you not receive a reply?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been travelling.”
The monk bowed. “What do you seek, my son?”
“My informant was uncertain, but she thought that you might be in possession of the works of Vincenzo Vincenzi.”