hand and his jacket, slung negligently over his shoulder, in the other. He looked as if he owned everything he could see.
A small pain hammered just above Boselli's left eyebrow, a sickening migrainelike pulse. Already he did not like the half-Englishman.
"Signor Boselli?" The toothpaste-white teeth lit up the good-looking brown face, a totally Mediterranean face without a single Anglo-Saxon feature.
"Captain Richardson?"
"Not captain any more." The smile remained in position as Richardson stared into Boselli's dark glasses. He breathed in the heat appreciatively. "Thank God for a little warmth at last. It was raining when we took ofi."
Boselli ignored the pleasantry. "Your identification, if you please."
"Of course." Richardson handed over a plain black little folder. "The mug shot's not a bad likeness, don't you think?"
The man's Italian was as faultless as his face, there was even an irritatingly added perfection in the hint of Neapolitan in it. He was smiling in the photograph, too.
"A formality," said Boselli coldly, handing back the folder.
"Of course." Richardson nodded. "And yours?"
The request caught Boselli by surprise; he had never, in his entire career, been asked for his official card by anyone other than the guards on the department, and that only in the dim past. But although the half-Englishman's intention of putting dummy2
him in his place was perfectly clear he could see no way of refusing it without a direct confrontation, and the insolence beneath the smile was too well-hidden for that.
He fumbled for it in his wallet, but unfortunately it had long settled in the innermost fold and in extracting it he dislodged a dog-eared collection of small private objects, including the appalling snapshot of his wife and mother-in-law taken during the previous summer's martyrdom in Viterbo.
The snap fluttered down between them and Richardson bent effortlessly and gathered it up, offering it back as though in exchange for the card while Boselli hastily gathered up the rest.
"A formality also," said the half-Englishman. "Shall we go, then?"
Boselli followed him to the car seething with the knowledge that he had allowed himself to be overawed, even though it was the English who were in the weaker position. Yet he knew also that it was not the English who mattered, but the General. If he could only obtain results by seeming to abase himself to this nonchalant pig, then that was how the game must be played. At least it was a role he knew how to fill to the last humiliating syllable. Revenge could come later.
Nevertheless it would be a mistake to surrender too tamely, and he must take the initiative to start with.
"This is a serious business, Captain Richardson," he began heavily.
dummy2
"You're telling me!"
"I am telling you, Captain Richardson. One of our agents has been killed and another lies gravely wounded."
Richardson chewed on that for a moment before replying.
"I wasn't aware that we were responsible for any of that, signore."
"It occurred as a direct consequence of the actions of one of your operatives."
"An indirect consequence. That would be a fairer description."
"Direct or indirect—the incident occurred and General Montuori is extremely angry about it."
"So is Sir Frederick Clinton."
"But General Montuori did not initiate this affair. He wishes to remind you further that Italy and England are treaty allies and that such actions as this could have grave repercussions within NATO."
That sounded good, Boselli decided happily, because it sounded official. It was beside the point that it was exactly the opposite of what the General had said: But we don't want any political trouble with the English. We're going to need them to keep that wild man Mintoff in line if he gets to power in Malta.
"In fact he expects the very fullest co-operation now, Captain Richardson."
dummy2
"Not 'captain', if you don't mind, signore," said Richardson.
At last he was no longer smiling.
"Signor Richardson." Boselli smiled. He might not have to surrender after all. "The fullest co-operation."
"By that I take it you mean a two-way exchange of information?"
"We have no information to exchange. We did not initiate this affair, as I have already pointed out."
"I see." Richardson nodded, regarding Boselli reflectively.
Then he turned away to the left as the car came out of a cutting through the dark-grey volcanic rock. "Monte Vesuvio's hiding himself today, I see. But he's still there all right. He's still there."
Boselli frowned at him, nonplussed.
"You know my family—my mother's family—came from these parts?" said Richardson conversationally.
Boselli nodded as Richardson turned to him.
"Of course you would. A big family it was, but not so big now.
Too many of the men developed the bad habit of getting themselves killed. But we once had vineyards from here to Ravello—red and white Vesuvio, and Ischia and Avellino.
Now only the Ravello vineyards are left, I think. And a pottery at Salerno. . . . And one of my second cousins has a machine-tool works at Torre Annunziata on the right there somewhere. It was his father who used to say that Monte Vesuvio sometimes hid himself, but he was always there." He dummy2
turned back towards the mist-shrouded volcano. "Have you picked up David Audley, then?"
Boselli thought quickly, but could find no objection to answering.
"Yes."
Richardson nodded. "Where did you pick him up?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'd be interested to know. At one of the autostrada toll stations, I'd guess—near Naples, maybe?"
"Salerno."
"Salerno! He must have been pushing it, but that figures. ...
So in effect we gave him to you."
"There was a general call out for him, Captain Richardson."
"Signor. But we told you—Sir Frederick told your boss—
where he was heading, so we gave him to you. That's what I call full cooperation. And you know who he was going to see?"
Boselli nodded cautiously. He had the feeling that the haze was about to lift from Monte Vesuvio—and that there might be smoke coming from the crater.
"Narva. Signor Eugenio Narva. Pillar of the Establishment and the Christian Democrats and the Church. Founder and master of Narva Enterprises from the Persian Gulf to Bonnie Aberdeen. Chief shareholder in Xenophon Oil and Singer and Bailey and Enfield Alloys and other companies too dummy2
numerous to mention, plus a finger in North Sea offshore block allocations 311/26, 312/6, 315/4. A very busy fellow, Signor Narva is—I'm sure you've heard of him, Signor Boselli."
Richardson grinned again at Boselli. "You know what happens to Romans who come South, signore—they're no good to the Calabrians because the Neapolitans have taken all their money from them as they pass through. That's why Calabria is so poor. But I'm only half from these parts, so I'll be nice to you—I'll tell you why we are so interested in Narva.
"You see, I'm afraid your General has gone off at halfcock—
we didn't initiate this affair, as you put it. We were only very gently enquiring—and Dr. Audley was doing nothing more than that—about a bit of industrial espionage in which Signor Narva indulged a few years ago. And a very nasty bit of industrial espionage, too—you could even drop the
'industrial' part of it if you liked. The sort of thing that'd raise unpleasant questions in our Parliament."
Boselli experienced a queasy feeling below the belt.
"The sort of thing—your boss was quite right there—the sort of thing that could have grave repercussions, not just in NATO but in the Common Market negotiations. In fact you're dead lucky that my boss is a Common Market man, otherwise our anti-marketeers would be having a field day now."