He let himself almost lose his balance.
Cuccaro grinned suddenly. 'I am also grateful to you for this
—' He swept a hand over the boat ' — these days, I command only a desk, you understand. So this is a most pleasant change — to be at sea again, Professore.'
Small talk, was what Audley understood, even as he grabbed the nearest stanchion in order to keep his feet: if this was the way the game had to be played . . . then the boat first. And that curious medallion . . . which that last lurch had brought close enough for him to be able to make out a bearded head on it, surmounted not by a crown, but what looked like a German pickelhaub.
'Is that so?' He managed to find an Audley-smile from somewhere. 'I wouldn't have thought this is your sort of boat, Captain.' He waved as best he could with his free hand to include the tattered awning and the flaking paint, glancing quickly at Elizabeth (whose expression still bore the remains of the impact of Cuccaro's grin: being dazzlingly smiled-at by handsome men was for her an outrage only a little short of being actually touched by any man, handsome or not). '"A smuggler's boat", Miss Loftus said — ?'
'Yes.' Cuccaro grinned again. But this time it was a different smile. 'Or, it was until very recently.' He held up his hand, with a single brown finger raised, 'Do you hear that?'
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The only thing Audley could hear was the engine. Which was just an engine, in the same way that the boat was just a boat.
But evidently not to Captain Cuccaro.
'Beautiful!' Cuccaro focused suddenly on Audley again, and was himself. 'It is ... an appropriate boat, let us say, Professore.'
Audley listened to the engine again. All he could say for it was that it wasn't making much noise. But if it was a smuggler's boat, that was to be expected. 'You mean . . . it's unobtrusive, Captain?'
"That also.' Cuccaro nodded, but seemed only half to agree.
'The Guardia seized it up the coast, a few days back.' The faint American origins of his otherwise perfect English intruded. 'There are many such in these waters
—''unobtrusive", as you say.' Another nod. 'And very fast, when speed is required.' He stared at Audley for a moment.
'Most of the time, they hire out to the tourists . . . with maybe a little fishing, also. And then, one day —one night, they meet a bigger boat, by appointment.'
'Uh-huh?' If Cuccaro wanted him to be interested in smuggling as a prelude to their own business, then he would be. 'Drugs, presumably?'
'Drugs ... or what you will.' The medallion swung in its nest.
'Cigarettes are still very popular with the smaller fry. And, of course, there are the local exports — the ancient artefacts . . .
Roman and Greek from Campania and the south. Etruscan from the tombs in the north —they are much sought-after by dummy1
foreign collectors. It is good steady business, Professore. If one is not too greedy.'
Audley nodded politely. 'That's very interesting.' But two could play at this small-talk-game. 'That medal of yours, Captain — is that an ancient artefact?' He leaned forward, keeping tight hold of his stanchion, but couldn't quite make out the inscription. 'What does it say — ?'
'My good luck piece?' Cuccaro looked down for an instant.
' "Wilhelm der Grosse Deutscher Kaiser" , Professore. " Koenig von Preusseri" .' He took the medal in his hand and turned it over.' " Zum Andenken an den hundersten Geburtstaf des grossen Kaisers Wilhelm I, 1797-22 Maerz-1897" .' He looked up at Audley. 'Not so very ancient. My grandfather picked it up on the Piavein 1918. My father wore it in his war. And now I wear it — for good luck, also.'
'I see.' Audley had had his own smile ready and waiting. 'And you think we'll need good luck today, Captain? Or is it Major Richardson who needs the luck now?'
No smile this time. 'He has been lucky so far. Now . . .
perhaps you are right.'
'With the Mafia after him?'
'Among others.' Cuccaro turned towards Capri for a second, as though to judge its proximity. 'What is it that you want from him, Professore Audley?'
'I merely want to ask him a few questions.'
'About what?'
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'I wish I knew.' But the truth wouldn't do, Audley could see.
'About the old days, when he worked for us. Nothing to concern you, Captain — or Italy.' And that was also true. But as Kulik had had nothing to do with Germany, he'd best hedge that piece of truth. 'What is it that your Mafia wants with him, Captain?'
'You do not know?' Cuccaro glanced at Elizabeth.
'As it happens ... I don't.' The trouble with the truth was that, with his Italian record, it was quite simply unbelievable. But it was all he had. 'The fact is, Captain Cuccaro, he resigned from our service years ago. And then he went back to the army. But then he resigned from that. . . You might say that he was having bad luck then.'
'Bad luck?'
Audley dredged his memory for what, in its time, had been of no more than passing interest on the " Heard about poor old Peter?" level. 'He had a nasty road accident. Not his fault.'
But memory, as always, came to his rescue: " Poor old Peter!
Ran into a dirty great big lorry, right outside his flat.
Smashed himself up properly, apparently — and his new Jag, too"; to which he had said " Is that so?" (and thought, from experience and with unfeeling disinterest, driving too fast, as usual—serve him right!). 'Not his fault . . . and then his mother died. So then he retired here, in Italy!'
But Cuccaro was watching him. 'You knew him well, though, Professore?'
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'I worked with him only once or twice.' He felt a vague irritation swelling up in his throat. 'I have not set eyes on him for fifteen years, Captain. And you have not yet answered my question: why is the Mafia interested in him?'
Cuccaro looked away for a second, then back at him. 'He has a boat like this one. And an organization to go with it. Only ...
his is an even better boat. And his organization, it would seem, is as good as his boat.' The stare became frankly disbelieving. 'And this . . . you did not know?'
For a moment Audley could only stare back at him. 'Peter Richardson — ?' He couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. 'You're saying — ?'
'"Wrong profile"?' Mitchell raised an innocent eyebrow.
The trouble was, it wasn't so utterly unthinkable, the next moment, as he thought about it — not, anyway, when he added premature retirement (and in comfort) to Richardson's restless spirit. It had been plain corrosive boredom more than anything else which had in the end parted him from R and D all those years ago, in spite of that wild special aptitude of his which had so captivated Fred Clinton. And boredom, as he well knew himself, was the father of mischief.
But he still wanted more time to think. 'Is smuggling your business then, Captain?' He pretended to study the boat as he spoke, as though that was expected of him.
Smuggling — ?
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'No.'
If smuggling wasn't the connection with Kulik, it was nothing, really — or, it needn't be, need it? Half the world's travellers, who filled the duty-free shops in every airport and chanced their arms with that extra bottle, were petty smugglers at heart —
Brandy for the parson, 'Baccy for the clerk — and if Richardson had merely been supplying that ancient demand
— ?
'Neither is the Mafia my business.' Having waited in vain for him to come back, Cuccaro spoke more sharply. 'But Major Richardson interests them now. That is what the word in Naples is, the Guardia informants say. And that, perhaps, is why he has become . . . unavailable?'