"We weren't watching the flight, and he was on the passenger list anyway. It was an ordinary scheduled flight and a routine entry. Purpose of visit—holiday."
Boselli waited patiently for the viper.
"But as luck would have it we did have a man there."
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"He was met?" Villari was trying to sound interested.
"Audley? No, he was not met," the General shook his head,
"not in the sense you mean, anyway. But there was someone there waiting for him all the same. Someone who didn't want to be seen by him. Someone who followed him when he drove off in his Hertz car."
Someone we know, thought Boselli.
The General looked at him. "George Ruelle—does that name ring any bells with you, Boselli? It's possible the bastard was before your time."
George Ruelle. The curious thing was that the General had used the English form of the given name, George.
George Ruelle.
Before his time. But his time here had been almost exactly continuous with the General's—they had both been new boys at the same time, albeit one at the bottom and the other at the top.
And that left one strong possibility at least.
"A partisan, General?"
"Good thinking." The General's smile was heartwarming. "Or should I say 'good guessing'?"
"It was a guess, sir," Boselli admitted.
"But a good one. Yes—Ruelle led a group in the next valley to mine. Group Stalingrad."
Group Stalingrad. Now, that rang a bell, or the faint echo of dummy2
one— a memory of ancient and better-forgotten beastliness: of war to the knife with the Germans, when no prisoners were taken and no questions asked, and when reprisal brought bestial counterreprisal.
It had passed the studious young Boselli by, but it had not left him unscarred.
Group Stalingrad. That had been one of the merciless ones—
and wasn't there also a tale of British POWs (or were they American?) who had escaped in the confusion of 1943 only to be cold-heartedly sacrificed—by George Ruelle?
If that was the man he must be quite old by now—and frighteningly young to have been the leader of a partisan group in those far-off, unhappy days. . . .
"This Ruelle followed Audley?" Villari's voice cut through the memory.
"We think so. He was there at the airport, waiting in his car.
He didn't collect anyone, he went off directly after Audley's car. He doesn't live in Rome and as far as we know he hasn't any business here."
"Where did they go?"
"That's the problem. Our man wasn't in a position to follow them himself. We know where Audley's staying, of course.
But for the rest—" The General's shoulders lifted eloquently.
It was pretty slim. In fact it was really far too slim to act on if that was all there was to it, thought Boselli, still watching the General intently. A viper there certainly was; in fact it was dummy2
patently because of that viper—Ruelle—that the General had become interested in Audley's arrival in the first place, not because of Audley.
He re-ran the General's voice in his head: there had been a tightness about it when it supplied its minimal information about Ruelle, "a group in the valley next to mine. Group Stalingrad." There could very well have been bad blood—if not actual blood—between the two partisan leaders, both young and ruthless, but one a Communist (only a Red would have named his group like that) and the other a blue-blooded army officer. Indeed, the more one thought about it, the more certain it seemed.
But there was precious little in reality to connect Ruelle and Audley beyond the fact that they had left the airport one after another.
"Is Ruelle active?" asked Villari.
Boselli looked at him quickly, annoyed with himself for not asking the same question. The Clotheshorse's mind must be labouring along roughly the same track as his own, but its very slowness had enabled it to see something he had overlooked: tailing people was a young man's game, not an old man's one.
The General considered the question. "If he is, then this is the first we've heard about it," he said slowly. "In fact, if he is then it will be— disturbing."
"Why so?"
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Once again there was an uncharacteristic delay before the General answered. "There was a time—it's a long time ago now—but there was a time when George Ruelle was considered to be a coming man, and a very dangerous one, too."
He looked from one to another of them. "That was after the war, when things were . . . very different from now. Tito hadn't shown his hand then, and Albania was Red, and it was touch and go in Greece. Those were the days when the bastard used to visit Moscow two or three times a year." The General smiled suddenly and frostily. "I rather think that if things had gone his way, then he might have been sitting at this desk. And I would have been very dead, that's certain."
The frosty smile faded. "But they didn't go his way. And when Stalin died, that was the end of him. They didn't want to know him any more."
Villari frowned. "But there's still a Stalinist Wing here—I saw Brusati in the Senate as large as life when I went to see my uncle there in the spring—"
"True, boy!" The General nodded. "But Stalinism is one thing and Stalin's crimes are another. There are some things even the hardliners don't want to be reminded of, and that's what George Ruelle does to them: he reminds them of the dirty things they've done. So they've disciplined him and pensioned him off—and told him to keep the hell out of their way and ours. And so he did, until we spotted him again at the airport."
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So it was even slimmer still. If Ruelle was a has-been, his presence in the car park at the time of Audley's arrival was probably no more than coincidence.
And as for Audley— Purpose of visit—holiday might well be the fact of it. The whole business was simply not worth following up, and the sooner the General was advised to that effect, the better.
"Well—" he began neutrally (the General liked to be shown at least two sides of any problem, no matter how many or how few sides there were), "—in my view—"
"Nothing to it," Villari steamrollered over his words. "If we acted on every chance meeting like this we'd never have time for real work. Ruelle obviously doesn't count any more—the Russians are working towards a detente at the moment, anyway, to take more of the stuffing out of NATO, so they wouldn't use his sort anyway. And—Jesus Christ!—the Englishman's got his family with him! It just adds up to a big zero." He turned at last towards Boselli, but with offensive courtesy. "Of course, Signor Boselli may have other ideas, I've no doubt. . . ."
The lump of hatred came back so fiercely, so suddenly, that Boselli felt the sweat start on his forehead in spite of the air conditioning.
"As a matter of fact, I have," he heard himself say in the far-off distance.
There was a ringing silence in the room, as though even the dummy2
distant hum of the city had been stilled by his words.
But what ideas? he thought wildly.
Only that the bullying swine had pinched his words, just as he had stolen his information, and that he couldn't— wouldn't
— agree with him under any circumstances!
But he couldn't say that.
The General was looking at him expectantly, though: he had to say something.
And something which made sense!
"It's hot in here," he said involuntarily, wiping his forehead with the silk handkerchief.
"Is that an idea?" asked Villari.
An idea?
"Yes, it is," said Boselli suddenly, plucking his line of argument out of space. "This is always the hottest time of year
—and the newspapers said yesterday that this is the hottest end of July we've had since 1794."
"That's right," the General nodded at him, interested curiosity written in his frown. "I read that too."