cover other enterprises, eh?
He ought to have thought of that. And, by God, it still beckoned him now, as he thought about it! At least it was something Captain Cuccaro would believe — Perfidious Albion! — he would believe that, if nothing else!
'Question-and-answer?' Mitchell moved into his silence, just as warily. 'Or arrest?'
That was going too fast. 'Please, Dr Mitchell —'
'Not arrest — ' Cuccaro spread his hands ' — say . . .
"protective custody" rather, sir.' He switched back to Audley.
'We do not desire . . . difficulties, Professore. But there are other matters — other considerations . . . which, at present, are not clear to us ... at this moment, you understand?'
This time Audley didn't quite understand. 'What other
"considerations"?'
Such innocence seemed to surprise the captain. 'You saw the airport? And the precautions there?'
Audley nodded, remembering Heathrow as well as Naples. 'A man in a tank pointed a cannon at me — yes?'
"Then you know that there is an anti-terrorist emergency.'
'An exercise, I thought. There was a similar one at Heathrow when I was there a few hours ago.' For once he didn't have to pretend innocence. 'An exercise? Or—?'
' "Sure" ,' murmured Mitchell. 'That's what they told me.'
'What?'
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'"Scheduled Unspecific Routine Exercise" — "SURE" for short, David. They have 'em all the time these days.' But then Mitchell cocked an eye at the Italian. 'Are you telling us that this time they're not so ... "sure", maybe?'
Cuccaro studied each of them for a moment. 'There is a great deal of ... activity, in many different quarters. Very disturbing activity, Professore.'
The engine-note beneath them changed from a controlled drone almost to silence, as though it were no longer propelling the boat. The harbour lay just ahead of them, with the island towering up above on each side of the crowded anchorage.
'What sort of activity?' snapped Audley.
'Your Major Richardson is not the only person who has become hard to find.' Cuccaro lifted one shoulder dismissively. 'He has not been my concern, until now, as I have already told you. But there are others . . .'He stared at Audley
'. . . whose sudden absence makes for nervousness.'
That, at least, Audley understood. Cuccaro must be an anti-terrorist man, among other things. And one of the first suspicious signs of any impending terrorist operation was the departure of the representatives of suspected terrorist-front agencies to safer climes beyond European jurisdiction.
But where the devil did that leave Elizabeth's Arab?
'I see.' That Arab was a damnable coincidence, more likely than not. Because, whatever Kulik had been offering them, dummy1
the Russians weren't into terrorism in these heady Glasnost days — if anything, quite the opposite . . . except that, neither were they into bad-publicity assassinations, by the same token. Yet, in the meantime, the last thing he wanted in the immediate future was Cuccaro breathing down his neck.
'Well, that's really rather reassuring.'
'It is?' It was Mitchell who spoke. But then, in his present post-Dublin twitchy state, he was another candidate for reassurance.
'Oh yes.' He forced himself to brighten. 'Major Richardson may be a ... smuggler.' He attempted an Italian gesture, half apologetic, half-cynical, as he turned back to Cuccaro. 'And, if he is, my Government would deeply regret that . . . which, quite frankly, comes as much as a surprise — a most embarrasing surprise — to us as it would appear to have come to your people, Captain.' Not even Jack Butler could find fault with such diplomatic language. But he had to harden it, nevertheless. 'And you can rest assured that after we have spoken with him we will place him at your disposal.
And then the law must take its course, naturally.'
They were all looking at him now. But the boat was wallowing in the swell outside the harbour, so they were all also finding it difficult to keep their feet as they did so, even the Italian himself.
'After — ?' Cuccaro managed to steady himself. Then he looked uneasily towards the harbour. 'Are you saying that you wish for no protection, Professore?'
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'Protection from whom?' Securely anchored to his stanchion, Audley could concentrate on asserting himself. 'The Mafia is none of my business. And I am none of theirs. They do not know me — they do not know of me. Why should they?' He shrugged. 'And, in any case, since Major Richardson has arranged this rendezvous with Dr Mitchell I think we may reasonably confide that they will not be attending it.' He smiled at Cuccaro. "Confide" was an admirably diplomatic word, with its nuances of smugness and self-importance — a very Henry-Jaggard-word. And that encouraged him to go further. 'I am simply visiting an old friend-and-colleague, to discuss matters from long ago, Captain. The fact that my old friend-and-colleague happens to have a problem of his own relating to certain — ah — certain unwise activities in which he has engaged . . . that is a mere coincidence.' But now he must sugar the pill. 'But he, of course, may not regard it as any such thing. More likely, he will have assumed that my appearance relates to those . . . alleged activities. In which case he will be expecting advice. And my advice will be that he must give himself up immediately.' No smile now: magisterial disapproval now! 'Indeed, I shall insist that he does that. And I will tell him that there is an unmarked craft waiting for him, to ensure his safety.' He nodded the words home. 'I trust that such an undertaking meets your requirements, Captain?'
'Hmmm . . .' Mitchell emitted an uneasy sound.
'Yes, Dr Mitchell?'
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"Protection from whom?" was what was exercising Mitchell's mind. And it might be as well to deal with the problem of Mitchell here and now, while he was inhibited by Cuccaro's presence. 'I take it you agree with me?'
'Mmm — yes, of course.' Mitchell gave him an old-fashioned look, but then brightened falsely as he turned to Cuccaro.
'We can perhaps leave Miss Loftus with you, Captain. We should be able to handle the Major between us, I don't doubt
— yes.'
'Not "we", Dr Mitchell.' Audley shook his head. 'You will both remain here, of course.'
Mitchell opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. 'My instructons, Dr Audley — '
' My instructions are to meet with Major Richardson, Dr Mitchell.' The only problem was that Mitchell had not been very precise. But Captain Cuccaro's presence could be helpful there, too. 'Where did you say the meeting-place was — ?' He nodded politely to the Captain. 'We appreciate your cooperation in this matter, sir. So there shall be no secrets between us.' He extended the politeness to Mitchell. 'Yes, Dr Mitchell — ?'
Mitchell was ambushed — horse, foot and guns. And there was nothing he could do about it. 'The Villa Jovis.'
'And where is that?' He beamed at Captain Cuccaro co-operatively. 'The Villa San Michele I have heard of, Captain . . . but I am afraid that I am not conversant with the dummy1
geography of Capri ... as, no doubt, both you and Major Richardson are — ?'
Cuccaro, equally ambushed, stared at him for a moment. And then pointed. 'It is on the other — ' he searched for the right word ' — the other mountain, Professore, from San Michele.
It is on Monte Tiberio —'
'Monte Tiberio?' Audley ducked under the awning to follow the line of Cuccaro's finger, to the left. 'And . . . the Villa Jovis
— what is that?'
'It is the palace of Tiberius.'
'Of Tiberius?' All he could see was what looked like a statue on the high point of the peak, above a fringe of trees, with a scatter of white houses below. So, presumably, the old emperor had been reinstated (probably by Mussolini, in his bid to re-establish the Roman Empire?), to look down on his special island. Which was a nice thought: old Wimpy, in his most memorable Latin lessons, had been a great Tiberius-admirer, disdainful of Tacitus and Suetonius as "mere gossipers" who had libelled a good man in his old age.