day.
This was what wealth was all about, this privacy, this secret elegance designed to sustain no one but its master. The opulence of the scene pressed down on him, overawing him against his will, for although he was here as the representative of the State, with theoretical powers far beyond that of any individual, he had too often seen the way wealth and influence, wielded with more single-minded determination than the servant of some distant bureaucratic agency would dare to exert, could nullify those powers.
Nullify them—and maybe ruin the career of the servant in the process. Even as it was, Narva would be angered by the intrusion of policemen into his privacy, so it would be prudent for Boselli to maintain a low, apologetic profile, letting the Englishmen do the talking.
The servant led the way through a gap in the colonnade, down a broad stone stairway, and, turning sharply to the right at the foot of it, along another broad stone-flagged walk. On their right the house— the castle, Boselli supposed—
rose up sheer; on the left, beyond a low parapet, was more of that black emptiness from which he had cringed in the car, with the smell of the sea rising up from below.
The walk continued into a vine-covered loggia, set with wrought-iron chairs sharply picked out in the light which shone through wide-open French windows. Here the servant halted, gesturing them into the light. Boselli paused momentarily, gathered his courage, and then followed the dummy2
gesture into the room, screwing up his eyes against the brightness.
Eugenio Narva was like, and yet unlike, his picture in the files.
Like, because the big, aggressive nose and strong mouth, the high forehead and the thick iron-grey hair were all a matter of pictorial record.
But unlike, because when you'd documented everything and recorded everything, you still only had a two-dimensional portrait. Over the years Boselli, who lived in the midst of thousands of such facts and figures, had learnt that in the end. Partly it had come from his own observation, but most of all from his attendance on the General, who always seemed to set greater store by what men didn't say, or wouldn't say—or couldn't bring themselves to say—about others.
He had sometimes felt that the General expected his operatives to have the eye of an artist and the tongue of a poet in addition to their other attributes. Certainly, the compiler of the Narva file had not dared to describe how the man stood, squarely and solidly, as though he had roots in the rock under his feet . . . and that consequently anything made of flesh and blood which collided with him would very likely come off a poor second.
"Signor Boselli?"
dummy2
Boselli started, gulped, bowed.
"I am—Boselli, Signor Narva."
Narva's dark eyes shifted towards the Englishmen.
"May I present Professore Audley and Cap—and Signor Richardson, of the British Ministry of Defence."
"Gentlemen—" This time Narva inclined his head. "You are not from the Embassy, then?"
"From England," said Audley.
"To see me?"
"To see you, Signor Narva."
"Then you have come a long way just to see me." Narva turned back to Boselli, and back into Italian. "And for this reason I have policemen on my grounds?"
"Indirectly, signore—for your protection."
"So it was said. But it was not said from whom I am being protected. And I would like to know, Signor Boselli."
"From the Communists, signore."
A small frown creased Narva's forehead. "I have the most cordial relations with the local Communists. And with the Communist Party. I certainly do not need protecting from them."
"The Russian Communists, signore."
"Indeed?" The frown was replaced by raised eyebrows and bland disbelief. "That is surprising, since I have never had any dealings with them."
dummy2
"Not directly, perhaps," said Audley.
"Nor indirectly, professore."
"You don't think the late Richard von Hotzendorff qualifies as a middleman, then?"
It was the opening move, and an attacking one even though it was mildly executed. Almost imperceptibly the big Englishman had come forward until he stood beside Boselli, while Richardson had drifted to the left.
"Richard—" Narva paused, "—von Hotzendorff."
"Your little bird from East Berlin, Signor Narva."
"And our little bird, too," murmured Richardson lazily. "Our busy little bird flying from tree to tree!"
Narva regarded Audley steadily. "I was acquainted with Richard von Hotzendorff, that is true."
"Acquainted?"
"He once advised me on certain business matters."
"Her Majesty's Government is very interested in those business matters."
Narva's lips tightened. "They were private transactions, professore —transactions made in Italy between an Italian subject and an East German citizen."
"Who happened to be one of our agents in the Soviet Union."
This time Richardson's voice was curt.
"That was of no concern to me, signore."
"But the information he gave you is of very great concern to dummy2
us, Signor Narva," said Audley heavily.
"I find that surprising—in view of the fact that I last saw von Hotzendorff in ... 1968, it was. More than three years ago, in fact."
"Nevertheless it still concerns us."
"And it concerns the Russians too, signore," added Richardson. "Which is why Boselli's merry men are in your shrubbery. You should be grateful we got here ahead of the KGB, you know. They seem to be in a rather disinheriting mood."
Narva stared at Richardson coldly. "Whereas you intend to say 'please' before you ask the same questions?"
Richardson shrugged. "We like to think there is a slight difference, you know. But if you're in doubt I suggest you ask Signor Boselli."
"I shall do better than that." The cold eye settled on Boselli.
"Under which of our innumerable ministries do you come, Signor Boselli?"
Boselli quailed at the thought of the Minister on the telephone to the General. Anything was preferable to that, even the most shameless falsehoods.
"This—mission has been cleared at the very highest level."
"I don't doubt it."
"We have promised the British Government our fullest cooperation."
dummy2
"You have, perhaps. But I haven't."
Boselli cleared his throat. "Signor Narva, I assure you—I will take full responsibility—"
Full responsibility! The very words stopped him in his tracks. He had heard them before—the General happily bulldozed through his subordinates' doubts with them—but never, never from his own lips. Indeed, he had risen from nowhere to what had been until this awful day a comfortable and satisfying position by the judicious avoidance of those dangerous words, against which his instinct had always warned him—the same instinct which now groaned in anguish.
"Responsibility for the discretion of two foreign agents?"
Narva dismissed the grand gesture with contempt. "My dear Boselli, oblige me by not treating me as a fool!"
"But I assure you—"
"No! It is I who will assure you, signore! It is of no consequence that you will not tell me to whom you are responsible—of no consequence to me that is. I know the man I want well enough."
Boselli stared helplessly as Narva hooked the ivory and gold receiver from the telephone on the table beside him. Of course he knew the man he wanted; someone like Narva would be on more than nodding terms with half the government. What was surprising was not that he knew exactly where to bring pressure to bear, only that he had not dummy2