But at least that certainty firmed his own meagre reserve of courage. At the time of the General's pronouncement he had been ready to accept the assignment as a test for them both—
a proof that they could sink their personal antipathies in the state's service. He still admired his boss enough to hope that that had played a part in the whole design, but he no longer believed that it played the only part. Because the General was a fair man he would accept honest failure— but because of his personal involvement he would be in no mood to put up with tantrums from either of them.
Villari gave no indication that he had noticed him except to put on the dark glasses which had lain beside his glass, a simple action which he contrived somehow to render affected.
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So it was going to be unpleasant. . . .
Boselli smiled politely. "I do not think I am late, but I am sorry if you have been kept waiting. Is anything happening yet?"
The dark circles considered him briefly. "If anything was happening I would not be here. And then you would have been late."
So it was going to be difficult too, thought Boselli. But he had expected nothing less ever since the fellow had walked out of the meeting without so much as one word to him. And since then he had obviously not bothered to work out any of the implications of the situation.
He sighed as he sat down. The difficulty was all the less bearable for being unnecessary, because the simplest of those implications was that he, Boselli, would be less afraid of offending Villari than of risking General Montuori's anger, but Villari was too stupid to understand that fact.
He stared directly into the dark glasses. "Signor Villari, I will be plain with you—" an eyebrow lifted above one of the gold frames "—I have been ordered to work with you and that is what I must do if it is at all possible. I do not care for you and you do not care for me—"
"I don't really think that much about you either way, frankly, Signor Boselli."
"—But it seems that you clearly do not intend to work with me. Consequently it is not possible for me to work with you."
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Villari's lip curled. "Little man—you do tie yourself into knots when you talk! I tell you again, it's of no consequence to me what you do. I can handle this man Audley perfectly well without you farting about beside me."
"And George Ruelle? Can you handle him as well?"
The lip straightened. "Him also, if I have to."
"And General Montuori too?"
"General—?" Villari cut the name off quickly, but could not stop the question forming.
"What's General Montuori got to do with this? Apart from setting it up?" Boselli nodded with a confidence he did not feel. He had to gauge this bit exactly: he had to put just a touch of fear into Villari, but it mustn't seem a deliberate act
—the man must scare himself, which might not be a quick process in one so lacking in imagination, never mind sense.
But it had to be attempted none the less.
"Tell me, signore—tell me this one thing—" he forced humility into his tone "—why do you think the General has ordered you to work with me?"
He paused only momentarily, because he did not expect any answer—Villari would never admit that he could not think of one. But he must, he surely must, have at least formulated that question in his mind all the same.
"I will tell you then, because the General never does anything without his reasons. ... It is first because in this instance we complement each other. You have all the proven executive dummy2
skills in the field —the daring and the resourcefulness when there is danger—" (Was he laying it on too thick? No! One glance at the arrogant lift of the chin confirmed that!) "—the quickness of mind and body, the firmness. . . ." That was enough—and in another second the words would choke in his throat, anyway.
"And in addition you are not known so well here in Rome—at least not to the agents of the British and those who might associate with Ruelle."
He paused again, opening his hands in a gesture of self-deprecation. "Whereas I—I too am not well known—though for a different reason, of course—and I have some specialist knowledge of—of present political considerations and personalities." (Villari would scorn such knowledge, so he could fairly safely claim it himself.) But this was all window-dressing: now he was coming to the real merchandise hidden in the back room!
"And it is because I have that knowledge that I am frightened, signore—because I have just a little more of it than even the General himself suspects. Enough to frighten me."
He had the man's attention now; even though not so much as a muscle moved in Villari's face Boselli was sure of it.
Whatever scorn the pig might affect, he would be uneasy at the thought of Boselli digging like a termite beneath him.
"You see—first, signore—I happen to know now who it was dummy2
who saw Ruelle and Audley at the airport. I know also that it was not Audley he recognised—it was Ruelle. It was Ruelle that interested him, too. And now I know why he was so interested in the man. ..."
He allowed the sentence to tail off mysteriously.
"Who was it, then?"
As Villari spoke at last a shadow fell across the table between them.
"What—?" Boselli began irritably, only to catch the absence of surprise or irritation on Villari's face.
Much more surprising was that Villari turned back towards him briefly with what was for him a remarkable gesture of courtesy.
"One moment—" the dark glasses tilted upwards again
—"Well?"
"The man and the woman have left the house—they've taken the car."
"In which direction?"
"Towards the Porta San Paolo, signore. Unless he's taken the wrong direction, they're heading out of the city."
Villari stared at the speaker, a compact, youngish man unknown to Boselli. Then he shook his head.
"No. He knows Rome well enough not to do that."
"Then it could be the EUR—there are some big museums there. Or maybe the beach at Ostia. It's going to be hot dummy2
today."
It was damned hot already, thought Boselli. What it would be like later didn't bear thinking about.
"Very good. Depretis is following them, then. I—we—will follow him. You go back and relieve Piccione at the house."
Boselli watched the man out of sight with a twinge of uneasiness. Depretis and Piccione were also names he was unable to place.
"Who is he—and the others?"
"One of the police special squads. The General must have borrowed them—he's had them watching Audley from the beginning, not our own men." Villari watched him, head cocked slightly to one side. "Would you have any thoughts about that, too?"
Boselli rubbed his chin reflectively. The Clotheshorse had changed his tune quickly enough, so perhaps he had some sense after all.
"I might."
"But in the meantime you have a name for me."
Boselli nodded. "Yesterday I took some reports to leave with Signorina Calcagano. She was giving the General's driver the evening off; she said the General would take the car to the airport himself. It slipped my mind until after our meeting.
Then I checked up on it."
He nodded again. "It was the General who spotted Ruelle."
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"You're sure of that?"