The man’s face adopted a disapproving expression. “That is unfortunate, Mister Fish.”
“And I intend to steal the book back from you.”
The man laughed incredulously. “I admire your honesty, if not your sense of self-preservation. How do you propose to do that?”
Webb finished off his drink.
The man continued: “I have seen this book. The how and why need not concern you. I have pored over its pages, every line, every letter. But it has defeated me. In its pages I see no hidden treasure, no secret diamond mines, no plans of invasion. But, Mister Fish, you know something about this manuscript. Something which may allow you to unlock its secret. You may therefore succeed where I have failed.”
“That is possible, given your level of intelligence.”
“It is also possible that you will insult me once too often.”
Webb said, “I think not. Because you’re going to let me walk away from here.”
The man nodded. “It is in my interests to do so. If the value lies in your carcass, I will never see you again. But if it lies in the book, you will risk your life to return for it. I am gambling half a million dollars by letting you walk free against ten million dollars if you come back for it. A reasonable risk to take, is it not?”
“Let me anticipate your proposition. I’ll unlock the secret of the book. In return you will promise to leave me alone and sell or blackmail your paymasters with whatever I come up with.”
“You have a formidable intelligence, young man. That is dangerous. I will have to take great care.”
“No, I’m thick. That’s why I’m in this position. Why don’t you just throw me in a cellar and force me to decipher it?”
“Because you would invent some story even if you found nothing. Only if you return for the book will I know for certain that it truly contains something of greater value even than your life.” The man finished his beer, patting his mouth with a handkerchief. “I doubt if you intend to keep your part of the bargain. When you return, if you do, you will attempt to steal the book.”
“I doubt if you intend to keep your half. Once I’ve given you the information I’m out of bargaining power.”
“Life is a risk, my friend. Consider the one I am taking with my paymasters.”
“May they meet you, one dark night.”
“I will leave you here. You will remain seated for ten minutes, after which you may do as you please. If you attempt to leave before ten minutes have passed, your day will turn into everlasting night.”
“The manuscript?” Webb asked.
“You and it will connect. If you attempt to escape with it you will be killed without warning, and I will settle for the other half million dollars in exchange for your carcass. But enough talk of death, my unworldly friend. Tonight is Natale, a celebration of birth. Why not proceed to the Piazza Navona, where the crowds are already gathering, filled with the joy of Nativity? Find a seat at the Bar Colombo if you can, and enjoy yourself. Be alone and carry nothing electronic.”
“Do something for me,” Webb asked. “It will complete the bargain.”
The man raised his eyebrows.
“Kill the bastards who murdered my companion.”
The man laughed, exposing a row of gold fillings. “You see! Under the veneer we are not so different! I advise you to change your clothes before the police start making connections. And then come to the Colombo within the hour, young man, and find me the hidden message, and live to enjoy your grandchildren.” The man picked up his walking stick and handed a ten thousand-lira note to the waiter, before sauntering down the hill. Near the Barberini, Webb lost him in the crowds.
Webb turned his chair slightly to get a better view of the tables. About nine feet away a silver-haired man, perhaps a banker, was reading Il Giornale. A young man from the north, in Levi’s and a black sweatshirt with Princeton University written across it, was staring openly at the Sicilian girl. She was throwing occasional sly glances at him. Two workmen with vast bellies were sharing a joke. A middle-aged nun was sipping a cappuccino. Their eyes met and she smiled coldly at him.
Surely not the nun?
No, the young man.
An elderly priest came through from the back of the café and the young man rose. They went off, arms linked Italian-style. Webb played with the toothpicks for ten minutes, then got up and headed down the hill, trembling, nauseous, and light-headed with relief. At the piazza, the articulated truck was jammed halfway round the corner, unable to move forwards or back. The street echoed with the blare of car horns and the traffic cop had disappeared.
Before he turned the corner, Webb glanced back up the hill. The banker was folding away his newspaper.
Webb knew the geography of Rome. He had spent six productive months with colleagues from the university, two years — or was it two million years? — ago. Some instinct told him to head for the Trastevere, the territory of noialtri, the people apart, who did not always speak freely to the law. He turned right along the Viale del Tritone, and headed across the city by foot. Once over the Garibaldi Bridge, he quickly lost himself in a maze of narrow streets, avoiding children on mopeds and three-wheeled motofurgoni loaded with big flagons of wine.
In a small square a frutteria lady was setting out her wares for the evening, heaving a massive box of tomatoes on to a table. A white-haired flower lady, an espresso perched on a cobble at her feet, stared with hypnotic fascination at Webb’s beachwear. Through an archway into a busy little square, cluttered with tables where men with wrinkled faces sat nibbling, drinking, watching the world go by. Wonderful smells drifted out of a hosteria.
A woman was sweeping out the doorway of a clothes shop. She buongiorno’d and followed Webb in. He tried the word for “underpants” in three languages and ended up, red-faced, surrounded by a gaggle of women trying to help. Half an hour later he emerged in a neat dark suit, in the style of an Italian businessman. He crossed the square to a tiny little cobbler’s shop. The man looked at Webb’s mass-produced sandals with polite amusement. Webb waited another half hour while the sun set and the cobbler tapped away at a last, a row of little nails projecting from his mouth. When the black leather shoes eventually appeared, they were of fine quality, and a quarter of the price Webb would have paid in Oxford. He had a coffee in a bar, letting the trembling in his body subside, and watched two youths playing a noisy game of pinball. Fifteen minutes later, he exchanged lire for a pile of gettone and fed them into the café’s telephone.
While he waited to connect, he looked at his watch. Walkinshaw had been dead for less than two hours.
And Webb had only ten left.
Casa Pacifica
The President faced Noordhof across the Oval Office desk, gazing at the soldier without a blink. “Let’s hear it again, Colonel,” he said over steepled hands.
“Sir, there is the possibility of a leak.”
“I must be going deaf. For an unbelievable moment I thought you said there was the possibility of a leak.”
“Leclerc is on a marble slab pending disposal,” said Noordhof in an unsteady voice. “He had an accident with a cable car.”
The President raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “He’s your rocket man?”
“Yes, sir. He and Webb, the other European, were supposed to identify Nemesis.”
“So what does this Webb have to say?”
“We can’t find him,” said Noordhof.
The President’s tone was flat. “My hearing’s gone again. Would you repeat, slowly and clearly, what you just said?”