Old Enemies (40 page)

The restaurants and bars began to close; the craft shops were already dark, most of the other buildings hiding behind their shutters. The Old City was closing its eyes, falling asleep. Sean found himself walking through the central Via del Teatro for the third time when he stumbled on a paving stone and almost tripped. His knee erupted in protest, leaving him bent over his stick, sobbing in pain. He was exhausted, cold, he knew he had to rest. There was nothing more he could do tonight. With an awkward and tender step, he shuffled his way back to his refuge in the car.

‘I have booked your ticket home,’ Simona said as he came into the bedroom. She used her office voice, tinged with sadness, as though this was business. She pushed the covers distractedly away, exposing her naked body.

As he saw her stretched out on the bed D’Amato’s cheeks flushed with anticipation even as some other part of him filled with guilt. ‘You know I must go home for Christmas. But I’ll be back soon.’

‘When?’ she asked, trying to pretend it was a matter totally without significance. He knew she was playing, teasing; it was her way.

‘As soon as I can.’ He began ripping off his clothes. They had agreed to go out to dinner, but he was late, again, and if he had to starve for this woman he knew every stab of hunger would be worth it.

‘You’re always in such a rush, Francesco.’

‘I am sorry, my little bird.’

She stared in accusation. ‘And you haven’t even had time to get presents for your children.’

‘I know.’

‘So I have bought you some. The things they want.’ She waved in the direction of a small pile of packages wrapped in colourful paper that sat on a side table.

His eyes grew wider still. ‘You are truly amazing,’ he gasped in admiration. Did this woman not have everything a man wanted in a lover? ‘But . . . how do you do all this? How do you know what they want?’

‘Simple. Your e-mail. You should never have told me your password.’ And now she laughed.

‘You can run my entire life!’ he exclaimed, dropping his shorts.

‘But, Francesco, I do. Except you must buy your own presents for your wife. I think we must draw a line somewhere, no?’

‘Christmas! Four days. So close. I lose track of it all, there is so little time,’ he complained, throwing himself onto the bed beside her.

‘Which is why I have also bought your present for me.’

As she laughed, he kissed her and he began to stroke her body, watching in timeless awe as he saw it coming to life.

‘So what do you want for Christmas from me, Francesco?’ She was breathing on his body, ruffling the hairs on his chest.

‘You know what I want,’ he gasped, losing all trace of judgement as her lips began to nibble their way slowly down his body.

Terri was staring into the flame of her candle at the window when J.J. arrived home. He threw his jacket onto the back of a chair; it slipped, fell to the floor, he didn’t bother picking it up. That was out of character, he was usually so particular about his clothes.

‘I’ve done it, got everything in place,’ he said, yet it sounded like an expression of defeat. He collapsed into a chair opposite her.

Without being asked she got up and poured him a drink.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, surprised, as he took the glass, grateful. It was the first thing either of them had done for the other in days. He sipped, feeling the whiskey cut through his exhaustion. ‘I had to take the last quarter-million from Sopwith-Dane. Thought you should know. A loan. I told him I could offer no security, he said his instructions were that it didn’t matter.’ He paused while the thought hovered between them. ‘It’s time to decide, Terri. Do we pay the ransom?’

‘How can we say no?’

‘It will cost us everything we have.’

‘And if we don’t, it will cost us even more.’

He stared deep into his glass. She thought she could see a tear fall, splashing into the whiskey. ‘I agree.’ The voice seemed to come from far away.

‘Can’t we rebuild it all, J.J.?’

It seemed to take all of his remaining strength to drag his eyes up from his drink and look at her, his wife of seventeen years. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘I think it may be too late for that.’

When Harry regained consciousness it was still dark. He had been brought to a different room, dragged there judging by the grazing he felt on his back, a room that was higher up the building, with a mansard ceiling – the attic, he assumed. He could see very little, tasted blood in his mouth from a split lip. He tried to stretch but found himself shackled by his wrists to a steel joist. His thoughts were scrambled, like a scattered herd, and it took him some time to round them up.

They knew who he was. One mention of his name and it had all fallen apart, and there was only one person he could blame for that, from whom the information could have leaked and put these thugs on their guard. Inspector D’Amato.

Harry felt his first nibble of despair. There was no one to help him, no one even looking out for him, apart from an old Irishman with a dodgy leg who couldn’t even cross the bloody road without almost killing himself – which meant Harry was on his own, except, as the first blush of a grey dawn began to squeeze through the windows at either end of the room, he discovered he wasn’t entirely alone. As his eyes and senses adjusted, he saw on the other side of the room the outline of another figure, shackled like him, stretched out on the floor and asleep. He stared into the half-light, and made out the pale but distinctive features of a young man.

It was his first sight of Ruari. His son.

Harry must have fallen asleep, for he woke some time later to find someone hissing at him. It was Ruari, from across the room.

‘Hey! Hey!’ he was calling softly. ‘My name’s Ruari Breslin.’

‘I know.’

It was still early, not yet full daylight. Harry struggled to see his son, even from a distance of no more than ten feet, but that might have had something to do with the maelstrom that was gathering in his eyes. The boy was older than his photographs, of course, with a bandaged hand, a bent nose, a grime-smeared face and almost a month’s worth of youthful hair on his cheeks. Harry’s chin, too, the same stubborn set of the jaw. And his mother’s eyes.

‘Who are you?’ Ruari whispered.

Who was he?
What sort of damned-fool question was that? I’m your father, you little idiot! Your bloody father! But there was no way Ruari could know, or should discover that, not right now, not here. It would be something for later.

‘Did my dad send you?’ Ruari asked, eagerly, and Harry twisted inside. How many battles was it possible to fight all at once?

‘I’m a friend of your family. I’ve come to get you out of here.’

‘Great start.’

‘I’ve found you, haven’t I?’ Harry replied, feeling pained by the teenage sarcasm, but hurt far more by knowing it was entirely justified. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ would have been so much better. But at least the boy’s reaction showed that he wasn’t cowed, that even after everything he’d gone through he still had a sharp edge.

Any further discussion was cut short as a figure loomed in the doorway and switched on the light. It was Sandu, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip. ‘Hey,
bastarzi
! Shut up,’ he snarled, ‘or you get nothing to eat but piss and wind for breakfast.’ He glared at them, checking their bonds, then cast them into semi-darkness once more before disappearing back into the adjoining room.

Harry nodded in the guard’s direction. ‘How many?’ he mouthed at Ruari.

Ruari held up five fingers.

Not bad odds, as these things went. Pity he was so tightly shackled, and the armed guard just feet away. Harry had been in worse spots, of course. Problem was, just at the moment, he couldn’t remember when.

Sean woke with the dawn, and groaned. He’d fallen into a deep sleep, in need of every minute of it, but during the night his immobile knee had swollen all the more and was now so stiff it would not bend. At this rate he’d have trouble simply falling out of the car, let alone chasing kidnappers. He tried swinging his leg round and cried out in pain. He sat still for a moment, panting, focusing, cursing, feeling every one of his near-seventy years and a dozen more besides, knowing he had to try again. By the time he’d succeeded in twisting and levering his body out of the car, his cheeks were moist with shame for his uselessness. He placed his injured leg on the ground, put a little weight on it, gasped in agony, even though he had his stick. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it felt like he’d been feckin’ knee-capped. Knee-capped, him! Suddenly he had an image in his mind of Harry, and the bastard was laughing at him.

He straightened himself up to his full height of five foot ten – or was it less than that now, at his age? It had been so long since it mattered, so long since anything much mattered, except this. ‘To hell with you, Mr Harry Bloody Jones,’ he muttered, and with clenched teeth began to hobble down the uneven paving into the Old City.