The Malaspiga Exit (12 page)

‘You're always busy when you want to avoid something. You had lunch with that American girl today, didn't you?'

‘And if I did?'

‘Are you going to make her your mistress too?' Katharine froze at the words.

‘That's no concern of yours. If you've come to pick a quarrel, you're wasting your time as well as mine. I'm not going to discuss Katharine with you.'

‘Oh I've seen the way you look at her!' The disembodied voice was deep with anger and reproach. ‘You're happy, smiling—a changed man again. It's always the same—God knows, I can recognize the signs …'

‘I've told you, Francesca—I will not discuss her!' Now his anger came out, harsh and vibrating through the machine.

‘You love to humiliate me, don't you! You've done it for years—you're bored with our friends' wives and the harlots you've picked up—now it's this girl! Something new, somebody different—I know you, Sandro, I know what you're going to do!'

‘You know nothing about me.' The contempt was acid. ‘Nothing. You wouldn't understand what it means to meet a woman who's fresh and honest. And beautiful. Very beautiful, Francesca. A real woman. You say I want her? Well, you're right; I do. I can't think why you should mind.'

Her voice was thick with tears. ‘You can reproach me,' she said. ‘For that one thing—you've never let me forget it.'

‘I've never been able to forget it myself. Go and do something to your face; it agitates Mama when we argue.'

‘Sandro! I warn you …' It was an hysterical cry, tailing off as the door opened and closed. He had left the library. There was the sound of someone crying, and then the tape stopped. For some time Katharine sat stiff and horrified, a hot colour in her face. There was a dreadful sense of eavesdropping, as if she had been physically concealed in the room listening to that bitter private exchange. The references to herself, the hate and jealousy, the contempt … she felt sickened. And afraid. She had been deluding herself that Malaspiga's interest was platonic, ignoring the way he looked at her, the sensuous touch of his hand on her bare arm. She hated him and she was frightened, frightened of the desire which flickered around her like fire. And like fire, it burned. She remembered when he had hung his coat over her shoulders in the crypt and she had wanted to turn and run. A drug smuggler, a murderer. And she knew, with horror, that in spite of everything there had been times when she responded, when she had forgotten what he really was. Know the enemy. Carpenter's advice again. But equally she had to know herself. She looked at her watch. Why didn't her Interpol contact ring back? The silence in the room oppressed her; but she dared not go out in case the call came through.

She put the tape recorder away in its case and locked it in the wardrobe. She wandered downstairs and sat in the lounge, ordered some coffee because she couldn't eat, and waited. The heroin was hidden in the antiques. This time it must be. She tried hard to think about that and forget the conversation which had followed.

The reception clerk came in and signalled to her. ‘There's a telephone call for you, signorina.'

Katharine sprang up. ‘I'll take it upstairs in my room. Thank you!'

Her contact was full of congratulations. ‘This is wonderful—you've made tremendous progress, and so quickly! I'll telex the message through to New York immediately. They'll make arrangements to search the goods when they arrive. It'll take about three or four weeks before they reach the States.'

‘Three or four weeks—'

‘By sea,' he said. ‘First they've got to be crated up. It could be longer. But don't worry, your Customs will be ready for them.'

‘Would you ask them when I can come home?' She hadn't meant to say that; she was surprised when it came out.

‘Do you want to make it an official request?'

Katharine hesitated. They'd think she was frightened. Carpenter would say that women weren't suitable as agents because they lacked the nervous stamina. ‘No,' she said. ‘Nothing official, just ask.'

‘I'll let you know,' he said. ‘Good night.'

She
was
afraid; perhaps Frank Carpenter was right. She should never have gone to Italy. But then he hadn't known and neither had she, that she would have to fight on two fronts. She undressed unwillingly and got into bed. She didn't expect to sleep well, and when at last she did sleep, it was tormented by confusing dreams.

She was woken by the telephone. She felt heavy and unrested; her head ached. It was Raphael. ‘I've had an answer from New York. Go to the nine o'clock Mass at the Santa Trinità Church; it's near the Ponte Vecchio. I'll be in the back row on the right of the Sassetti Chapel. Kneel beside me.'

It was a bright morning, warm although still early. She had drunk some coffee and tried to shake off the malaise of a bad night and a feeling of anxiety, but without much success. The Santa Trinità Church was a beautiful fourteenth-century building with famous frescoes by Ghirlandaib, situated on the left side of the Piazza Santa Trinità. It was still too early for the tourists and the church was almost empty. A Mass in the Italian Rite was being said in the Sassetti Chapel; there was little light except for the candles on the altar and a single spotlight directed on the crucifix which was said to be miraculous. The famous frescoes were in shadow. Katharine looked round and after a few moments she became accustomed to the dimness. Raphael was where he had said, in the last pew at the back. She moved in and knelt beside him. He glanced at her and smiled.

‘Good morning. This is supposed to be good for the soul.'

‘What did New York say?'

‘They said to congratulate you. You've done very well. They believe this consignment will contain heroin and so do I. Then we'll have them.'

On the right side of the altar the priest began to read the Gospel. His voice boomed through an amplifying system. They stood up.

‘What are you going to do?'

‘Let the goods go through to the States,' he said. ‘Your people will examine it secretly, find the heroin and then arrest this Mr. Taylor when he takes delivery. They're very excited.'

‘Supposing there's nothing? There wasn't last time.'

‘There will be. We'd been tipped off that a large quantity had been processed in Naples and was on its way to a pipeline. This is the one. I have a feeling for heroin. I know it has been sent to Malaspiga.'

‘I hope to God you're right,' she murmured. The Gospel ended, the amplifier crackled, exhorted the Lord to be with them all, and a mutter of response came from the congregation. They sat down.

‘Then there's no reason for me to stay,' she said. ‘I've done all I can.' He glanced quickly at her; the remaining hair on his head grew in little snaking tendrils over his ears. There were flecks of grey in it.

‘New York wants you to stay on,' he said. ‘I mentioned that you'd like to go back, but they said it was very important you finished your part of the operation. They want you to get a look at the furniture. Mark it for identification later. That way, nobody can say the pieces were switched after they left Malaspiga.'

‘I can't do that,' she whispered quickly. ‘That's impossible …'

‘If you don't do it, we may not be able to pin this on the Duke. Remember who he is. This isn't like nailing some dirty little trafficker in Naples or Marseilles. Your cousin is head of a great Italian family. That kind of thing still matters here. We've got to prove that he sent out goods which concealed heroin. And one antique chest or table can be much like another. I've brought something for you.'

It was the shape and size of a small pencil, only thicker. He passed a prayer book to her and the marker was hidden in the middle of it.

‘It's stain,' he said. ‘And it doesn't come off without re-polishing. All you have to do is make a specfic mark, like a T, something which won't immediately be noticed. It works on marble too. Bronzes are no good; you'll have to try and memorize what you can.'

‘But if there are dozens of pieces, sets of chairs—it's not possible to mark them all!'

‘The last consignment of furniture was about ten items. Some statuary and some
objets d'art
. The Customs value put on them for insurance was around half a million dollars. Your cousin only deals in the best. This lot will be about the same.'

‘I don't want to do it,' Katharine said.

‘Nobody can make you.' Raphael's tone was patient. ‘But if you want to avenge your brother's death it will make all the difference. It's up to you.'

‘Lamb of God,' the amplifiers invoked, ‘you take away the sins of the world.'

‘Have mercy on us,' the scattered worshippers replied.

‘All right,' Katharine said quietly. ‘All right, I'll do it.' After what she had heard on the tape recorder she knew that a request to Alessandro di Malaspiga wouldn't be refused.

‘I'll let your people know.' She saw him smile at her. It was easy for him to be encouraging. The Communion bell had rung; people were filing out of their pews and walking down the aisle to the altar. To her surprise he moved to join them. She had been brought up a Catholic and lapsed after leaving her convent school. It had never occurred to her that a man like Raphael could still practise.

She bent her head, her eyes closed. It was a thought, not a prayer, a groping in the darkness of doubt. Help me. I'm frightened.

She looked up, as he returned to his place. He knelt for a moment, his hands shielding his face.

The Mass was coming to an end. They stood to receive the blessing, and Raphael crossed himself.

‘You'll need to go soon,' Raphael said.

‘I'll try for this weekend. Otherwise everything will be packed up.'

‘You're being very brave,' he said. ‘But you will have to be very careful. Malaspiga is a little town; you will have nobody to help you if anything goes wrong.'

‘I know that,' she said. ‘I hope you said one for me just now.'

‘As a matter of fact, I did.'

‘It didn't help Firelli much; I have a nasty feeling that the saints are sleeping.' They moved out of the pew towards the side door. At the holy-water stoup Raphael paused. He dipped his hand in the water and touched hers with it.

‘In an emergency you can call me, and whatever happens I'll come. I promise that. But don't do it unless you have to. Good luck.'

He hung back, and she went out ahead of him. Outside the sun was like a laser beam; she shielded her eyes against it. The inside of the church had been cold and musty with the smell of age. Like the tapestries at the villa. It was Thursday; Alessandro had said he would be back on Friday and take her out to dinner. And that was when she would ask him to show her Malaspiga Castle. To take her to the place from which Firelli had disappeared. She walked slowly across the Piazza Santa Trinità. There was comfort in the crowds, in the warm sunshine. She took half an hour to get back to her hotel, and when she did she found John Driver waiting for her in the foyer.

‘Hi there,' he said. ‘I thought I'd catch you early. The reception said you were on the telephone when I tried to call. I've come to take you on a tour of the city; then we can have lunch, if you'd like?'

‘I'd love it,' Katharine said. ‘How very nice of you.'

‘I hate to admit it,' he said, ‘but it was just as much Sandro's idea. He was afraid you'd be lonely.'

Then she remembered his remark when they parted. ‘John will look after you till I get back.'

‘Yes,' she said, suddenly chilled. ‘He told me you'd be round.' Out in the brilliant sunshine and the busy street, she took his arm.

‘I have a car round the corner,' he said. ‘There're hot on parking offences in this city. I thought you might like a tour of the galleries. Do you like modern art?'

‘Why yes,' Katharine said. ‘I do.'

‘I hate it,' he said. ‘But it has something to teach me, so I go along and study. Then when I've seen enough I go round to the Bargello and look at the Donatellos and the Michelangelos. Just for reassurance. Here's the car.'

‘You sculpt, don't you? The old Duchess was talking about you. So was Francesca. I'd love to see some of your work.'

‘You'd have to come to Malaspiga Castle to see that,' John Driver said.

‘It'll have to be soon,' she answered. ‘I haven't that much time left of my holiday.'

‘Anyway, I don't think you'd like the Castle,' he said. He took a corner with surprising speed. The Duke was a flamboyant, ruthless driver; John lacked his style but equalled his force. ‘It's a very gloomy, medieval place. Maybe I'll have an exhibition in the States. Then you can come to that.' He found a permitted space on the Piazza Santa Croce, and they went into the famous Lanzarrotti Gallery to see the exhibition of abstracts by James Ferris, one of the most
avant-garde
of English sculptors. She found the Canadian a knowledgeable and relaxed companion; there was no suggestion that he found her attractive or had any personal motives in escorting her. He was friendly, but obviously absorbed in what they were seeing.

Lunch was leisurely; they ate in a simple trattoria, quite unlike the smart restaurants frequented by the Duke. The food was plain but excellent; they drank a sharp Chianti which she preferred to the more sophistcated Italian wines.

John Driver asked her about herself, and she gave him the story invented for the Malaspigas. She referred briefly to her brother's death and told him that he died of cancer. He looked concerned. ‘That's terrible. My mother died of it. It must have been hell for you too. What are you going to do when you go home?'

It was an unexpected question and she had no answer. She hadn't thought about the future. One night spent with a man she had turned to on an impulse because she was lonely and afraid. But something had happened between them, something that Alessandro was making her forget. He had been strong and tender. For those few hours she had felt so safe. It was a memory to hold on to; without Frank Carpenter nothing awaited her when she returned but the vacuum left by her brother's death.