The Malaspiga Exit (2 page)

He went away for cures; he tried psychiatry, group therapy, a long cruise with Katharine, who had given up her job to keep him company, but nothing helped. He had to have the drug. His mother had a heart attack, and from then on his home was closed against him. Katharine had never forgiven her father; he had abandoned his son.

For seven years she had lived with him, fought for him and gone from hope to despair, seeing the person she knew transformed into a stranger. A liar, a thief, capable of stealing from her when her back was turned, a reject who only felt comfortable with other addicts. If she hadn't supported him, she knew he would have joined the army of addicts who in turn pushed drugs. It had been a long journey to that cemetery in New England; to the two-foot-square plot with its urn full of ash, and to the conversation with Ben Harper and Frank Carpenter at the drive-in café.

She went to the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs training centre in Manhattan. Frank Carpenter met her there. It was the first time she had seen him since the funeral. He was curt and irritable. He hadn't spared her, that first morning. ‘If you think that penetrating an organization like the Malaspigas is going to be easy, then you'd better walk right out of here and take up social work instead. It's going to be tough, Miss Dexter. And having one of them as a grandmother may be a great introduction, but after that you're on your own.'

He was prepared to dislike her as much as he disliked her mission.

It was the first time he had disagreed with his chief. Carpenter had been with the Bureau for twelve years and directly responsible to Ben Harper for the last four. He had never found cause to criticize his policies or his judgement until he enrolled Katharine Dexter. To Carpenter, the idea of using women on high-risk missions was bad enough; to bring in an amateur was making certain of disaster. He had gone to the funeral without much misgiving. He was certain that whoever this girl was, she'd have the sense to refuse. He hadn't even reminded Harper about Firelli, because he hadn't believed the idea would come to anything. When Harper told him that Katharine Dexter had agreed to do it, he made a reasoned protest which ended up with his banging Harper's door and stamping back to his own office.

‘It's our only chance,' Harper had insisted. ‘We know those bastards are connected with it, and people like that don't come in except at the top. We've tried getting to them and we've failed. They're too smart to let anyone penetrate that organization. This girl is a chance in a million!'

‘That's what we thought about Firelli,' Carpenter pointed out. ‘He looked cast iron. One of the most experienced agents we had; right background, knowledge of antiques, everything. And he disappeared. A crack shot, a judo expert, a really bright guy. Vanished. And not a thing anyone can pin on them. I'm sorry, Ben; you want me to train up this girl and get her to take on a set-up like that? It's not just crazy, it's a death sentence and you know it.'

‘We haven't any choice,' Harper responded. ‘We've got to crack this. I want you to give this girl everything you've got. I've seen you turn the rawest material into something top-grade. You can do it and I'm not having any excuses. Okay, she's a woman, and you don't like women in this kind of work. And she's a complete outsider, no police training, no service affiliations, nothing. But she's got the means of getting to them, if anyone has. I want her ready by the end of the month. Cram in as much as you can, and don't let your prejudices get in the way. And that's an order.'

It wasn't easy. She proved to be intelligent, thorough; as if she sensed his hostility, she set out to do better than he expected, and soon enough he had to admit that her ability was exceptional. She had a first-class memory and a natural eye for detail. She mastered the mechanics of simple electronic bugging, and showed a rare facility for identification. There was no evidence of a neurotic personality or of anything more than a natural feminine diffidence in what was such a very masculine preserve. Nobody got to see her or know her. She stayed in the section of BNDD building which was reserved for special training. At the end of three weeks she was making such good progress that he had to report to Harper that she would soon be ready.

The night before Katharine left for Italy, Frank Carpenter invited her to dinner. They went to a small restaurant on East 42nd. As he took his place opposite to her, he realized that he hadn't taken a woman out for a meal since his divorce. He had spent the last weeks looking at her dispassionately, working her as hard as he had ever done with a male recruit. He had followed Harper's instructions, against his judgement, but with absolute fidelity.

He had taught her everything she needed to carry out the job and take reasonable precautions to protect herself, the last part being a sop to his conscience. He had described the mission as a death sentence. He remembered that remark as he looked at her. There were shadows under her eyes and she looked tired. She was a pretty girl but cast in an unconventional mould, compared with what he described as the average pre-packed American beauty. It was a rather long face, with distinct features; the combination of blonde hair and brown eyes was unusual. Her normal expression was grave.

She saw him watching her and smiled.

‘Is this your usual place for dinner?'

‘No. I get a beer and a sandwich most nights. I thought you'd earned something better than that. What would you like to drink?'

‘Scotch and soda, please. I'm quite hungry; now I think of it, I've been living on sandwiches for the last month too!'

‘We should have done this before.' He seemed more relaxed than she had ever seen him; he gave her a grin which was almost shy. ‘You've been a great pupil.' He nearly said he was going to miss her, but he stopped in time.

She knew nothing about him. She thought this as they looked through the menu; glancing up, she saw him frowning slightly, making up his mind. They had worked in the closest proximity for up to ten hours a day, and she had learned nothing about him beyond his name.

‘I'll have a steak on rye and a green salad,' she said. ‘Tell me, after you've had the beer and the sandwich, what do you do then?'

‘I go home. You've made a good choice; I'll have the same.'

‘Is home far away?'

‘Out on Grantham; near the golf course. I have a small apartment and sometimes grab a game at the weekends.' He offered her a cigarette and lit it for her.

‘You're not married?' She had noticed that he never said ‘we' in any context.

‘Not any more.' The tone of voice didn't invite further questions. Silence developed between them; she took out her mirror, used a lipstick, looked at the people standing by the bar. He didn't seem to mind not talking.

She had moved into a small hotel on 50th; she had stored her furniture from the Village apartment; the memories of Peter were too strong. She never wanted to see any of it again. He had come out of a well-known clinic in New Hampshire after a stay of six months. And for the first time it seemed as if there was hope of a cure. A week later she left him alone in the apartment. When she came back he had disappeared. A few hours later she found him in Bellevue Hospital, dying from an overdose. She wondered suddenly whether the man sitting opposite her had any real idea of the receiving end of drug addiction. Of the misery, the fear, the sense of isolation which was part of being with an addict.

His marriage had been a failure; it was obvious from the way he answered that the experience had hurt.

‘You didn't marry again?'

Their drinks had arrived. He sipped his beer.

‘I don't have time for a wife,' he said. ‘In my experience that's something you've got to give a woman to keep her happy. Plenty of time. I work a sixteen-hour day; I have to fly off any place at a moment's notice. This is a job for bachelors.'

‘Was that what went wrong?'

‘In a way, yes. My wife was lonely; she got suspicious. She couldn't believe it was work keeping me away from home. So she invented other women. We had a very rough two years before we got divorced. She's remarried now, and she's very happy. So …' He shrugged. ‘That's my life story. How about yours?'

‘I should think you know it all; I know how your department checks up!' He smiled at her; it made him look suddenly attractive. His eyes were friendly.

‘I know your age, where you were born, educated; no criminal record, one boy friend who dropped out after you left college. Seven years taking care of your brother. And you've never been married. That's surprising. You're an attractive girl.'

‘Addicts need time too,' Katharine said. ‘Anyway, I'm old-fashioned. I never met anyone I really cared about. I need to be in love before I marry. Right now, all I want to do is get to Italy.' Carpenter didn't answer.

She looked less tired than when they came in. Every time he looked at her he saw his friend Firelli. He was one of the experts in the undercover department, with all the skills at his command. He had gone to Malaspiga and vanished. He had a good sense of humour and he was popular. He used to come to the same place with Frank, have a few drinks and eat dinner with another Bureau man, Jim Nathan. The three of them had been good friends. They used to sit around and kid the waitress.… He leaned across the table towards Katharine.

‘I shouldn't say any of this to you,' he said, ‘but I've told Ben what I think of the idea. I think it stinks. I've done my job …' He looked up at her briefly. ‘I've taught you how to plant bugs in a room, how to memorize facts and faces, the elementary things an agent has to know. But I don't call it training. It takes years, Kate, not weeks. I feel really bad about this. I told you about an agent called Firelli. He was a great guy. We used to come here together. He got one message through which made no sense and then he disappeared. I want you to think about that. He's dead. And that's what you're walking into. I told you the first morning you came to the Bureau, being a relative isn't going to help you. When you get out there you're on your own.'

‘I know all this,' Katharine said quietly. ‘I'm not doing it under any misconception. You realize what the odds are? There must be twenty million Americans with Italian ancestry. But my grandmother was a Malaspiga. I believe that's fate.'

‘It wasn't fate that killed Firelli.' Carpenter's expression was grim. They didn't mention the subject again. There seemed nothing more to say.

He brought her back to her hotel, and on the step outside he kissed her. In four weeks of being constantly together, he had never put his hand on her.

When he let go he didn't move to go away. She put a hand up and brushed back a wisp of hair. It was so long since a man had held her. She knew he wouldn't ask; if she refused, he wouldn't be able to shrug and walk away. She sensed that as he kissed her. He made a gesture, which was as close to a plea as he could bring himself. He took her hand and held it.

‘Frank,' she said, ‘would you like to come up and have a drink?' It sounded trite and hypocritical, but it left an escape route open for them both. Encounters like this didn't always work. A hotel bedroom could cast a chill, frosting over desire, unless there was a special element beyond the sexual impulse. He took her arm and they walked up the steps.

He made love with a gentleness that surprised her, as if he realized how long it had been. When they were alone he saved her the embarrassment of offering a drink which neither of them wanted. He closed the door and took hold of her. He said simply, ‘I want this, Kate, but only if you're sure you want it too.'

And she did. She wanted the strength and tenderness and the sense of living which was part of his love-making; there was a generosity in him which gave the physical union a different dimension. He didn't degrade what had happened by dressing and hurrying away. He stayed with her till the morning, and in the aftermath they talked, cramped in the single bed, with the curtains pulled back and lights from the street outside flashing on the ceiling.

‘I don't want you to go,' he said.

‘I know,' she answered. ‘You told me. But I have to do it. I'm glad you came back with me, Frank. I feel braver than I did.'

‘You're brave anyway,' he said, ‘but you could duck out of it now and nobody would blame you. I'll tell Harper.'

‘No.' She laid her hand on his shoulder and her cheek on the hand.

‘I owe it to my brother. Maybe I'm more Italian than I think.'

‘The hell with that,' Carpenter said. He leaned over and kissed her. ‘Maybe you'd forget about your brother if you stayed with me for a while. I could take some leave—we could go away somewhere. Don't go, Kate. Please.'

She kissed him back and didn't answer, and this time it was she who gave to him. It was light when he left her. She came to the door with him and they embraced. She felt as if they had been together for a long time.

‘Wish me luck,' she said.

‘Be careful,' Carpenter said. ‘For Christ's sake don't take any risks. Promise me. And if you need me …'

She watched him from the window until he had walked away out of view round the corner. Then she began to pack and by eleven o'clock that morning she left Kennedy Airport on the first stage of her journey to Florence.

She had never felt more alone in her life.

CHAPTER TWO

She had been in Florence for a week before the letter came. She saw it even before the reception clerk signalled to her. There was a white triangle in the slot below her room number, and it was the only one. She walked over to the desk and the clerk reached up and gave it to her. He smiled, thinking she would be pleased.

‘It came by hand after you'd gone out this morning,' he said. He was watching her with an expectant look on his face.

‘Thank you,' Katharine said. On the back of the envelope, embossed in crimson, was the crest of the Dukes of Malaspiga. She went up to her room and opened the letter.