The General paused thoughtfully. "He has a good mind, this Englishman—a Renaissance mind. He knows how to threaten without making threats."
"He threatened them—the Russians?"
"Oh yes. But not in so many words. What he did was to give dummy2
them the blueprint of the threat—the materials . . . a—what do you call it? —a do-it-yourself kit. That is what he gave them—a do-it-yourself kit!"
He grinned boyishly at Boselli, as though his knowledge of such a plebeian thing as do-it-yourself was surprising.
"Don't worry, Pietro—your instinct was right. No one in his right mind trusts a Communist to trade honestly, they are worse than Neapolitans. But you must remember what Audley said to the man Panin that first time at Positano."
"He was—very frank."
"Indeed he was. He offered to trade one piece of information for another, and to show his good faith he offered his own information in advance. But what else did he give?"
Boselli thought back. At the time he had thought the Englishman had been unnecessarily talkative, both as regards events in England and in Italy.
"He made sure the Russian knew that he was personally involved —that his wife's life was at stake. He said there had been a shooting in England—" the General's manicured left forefinger marked off each item on the fingers of his right hand, "—and a worse one in Italy. He emphasised that he knew the KGB was not to blame—that the agent Korbel and the Bastard were no better than terrorists—and that the authorities in both countries were prepared to offer terms not only to save the woman but also to avoid unnecessary scandal. He said if the newspapers here got hold of it, with dummy2
the elections approaching, they would make a feast of it, and nobody wanted that—it would only benefit the neo-Fascists and the trouble-makers. He—" The General stopped as he saw the light of understanding in Boselli's eyes, "—you see, Pietro?"
Boselli saw—and saw that he had been absurdly slow in catching on.
The deal—the trading of information—was a fiction to enable the Russians to take his orders and to give their own without loss of face. The traitor in Moscow was of no importance to the Englishman compared with his wife, and he had served notice that if any harm befell her he would blow the whole scandal wide open.
It mattered not at all that the KGB was for once blameless.
Either the world would refuse to believe it, and they would be branded as kidnappers and murderers at a time when the civilised world was sick of such crimes; or they would be revealed publicly as the incompetent employers of kidnappers and murderers, incapable of controlling their own agents. And the fact that this was often true enough made not the least difference: what mattered was that it should not be seen to be true by the man in the street.
"You see, Pietro?"
Boselli nodded. But what he still did not see was why the General, as a lifetime Red-hater, was so happy to go along with the Englishman's plan.
dummy2
"Good!" The General looked at his watch. "Now you can play me the tape."
By the time they got back to the cars the Englishmen had arrived: they were sitting on the pine needles, talking quietly for all the world as though they were waiting for a picnic to begin. Indeed, they seemed more relaxed now than at any time since he had first met them, during which no immediate danger had threatened them. And since they might be both dead within half an hour this must be a conscious display of that celebrated British phlegm of which they were so proud, but which Boselli had always imagined stemmed from a simple lack of imagination.
Audley rose slowly, brushing the pine needles from his trousers before coming towards them.
"Good day, General—Signor Boselli," Audley gave the General a little bow and Boselli a curious glance as though he was looking at him for the first time. "Are we all set, then?"
"Everything is as you wished it to be, Dr. Audley," said the General. "It's a typical Ruelle bolt-hole, with an escape route at the rear —he always boasted that his kennels had back doors to them. But we have the whole place covered."
"And the presence of your men in this area is accounted for, just in case?"
The General looked at Boselli.
"Yes, professore. There was an announcement on radio and dummy2
television last night and again today—there is supposed to have been a breakout from prison at Naples. We have had roadblocks set up over half the province to make it look authentic."
"Excellent. And of course the roadblocks will have discouraged them from leaving the farm, eh?"
That bonus hadn't occurred to Boselli, but he nodded quickly and knowingly in agreement. He had worked hard enough on this operation to justify taking all the credit that was going spare. Besides, it was for the best that the Englishmen should have their confidence built up: they were taking all the risks, after all.
"Very well." Audley turned to the General. "But there is just one small change in plan. I'm not going to take Richardson with me. I've decided against it."
Richardson's brow creased with surprise. "What do you mean? We agreed—"
"—We didn't agree anything, so don't start arguing, Peter."
"Arguing? Man—I'm here to watch out for you!"
"Too late for that. And once we're up there, there isn't anything you can do to stop things going wrong—if I can't swing it."
"Oh, come off it! The Bastard's a real mean guy, David—"
Audley shook his head obstinately. "I know the score. You're not coming, Peter. I don't need you—and besides, it's better that one of us remain here."
dummy2
Richardson turned hotly to the General, though why he was so keen to reject the chance of safety with honour quite escaped Boselli. It could only be boneheaded self-esteem: the fellow was as bad as Armando Villari.
"General—" Richardson appealed, "—you tell him!"
"No, Captain," replied the General, with a sudden flash of his old military decisiveness. "Dr. Audley is right and you are wrong. I agree with him."
"My job—"
"—Your job, Captain, is to obey orders. If not Dr. Audley's, then mine," snapped the General. "Now, Dr. Audley—do you intend to go alone?"
The grove of trees was quite cool, really. And for once even the cicadas seemed to have given up.
"No. I need someone to deliver your bargain ... to give substance to it, anyway."
"Again, I agree," the General nodded. "Then I shall go with you. I'd like to have a last look at the Bastard—I didn't get a good look last time."
"No, General—"
A fearful premonition stirred within Boselli.
"—that would be bad tactics. It might be like a red rag to a bull, and we don't want this bull angered—"
No General! Not you General—Boselli felt the stillness ringing inside his head, making his senses swim. It was like dummy2
the moment in Ostia all over again—like the moment when the other car turned towards you and there was no time to turn the wheel and nowhere to go. The moment when the examiner said I'm sorry, but— The moment of total realisation and of no escape.
"—and your name will be enough, at the right time. I'd rather take Signor Boselli, if you can spare him—"
XVII
HE COULDN'T REMEMBER anything they had said, he could only see the dusty track stretching up the hillside towards the farm. "Is there anything else you'd like to know before we start?"
Boselli felt the sweat beneath his palms on the steering wheel. He had the feeling that this was at least the second time of asking that question. But there was nothing else he needed to know, because he knew it all.
Maybe the big Englishman was doing what he thought was best and most reasonable in cold blood. And maybe he was right at that! But he, Boselli, the Boselli of flesh and blood, was here because the General liked to hedge his bets; because the General thought maybe the Englishman couldn't pull it off, and if he didn't then it would be better to lose the little clerk Boselli than the son of one of his old flames, the half-Englishman—