Peter Lovesey - Diamond Solitaire

As a preliminary, he went through a token exercise to limber up, flinging bis arms outwards like a cheerleader and simultaneously running in place. Some of the others in the party attempted sheepishly to do the same. Then Gatti moved off at a sedate jog, and with his henchmen in tow he could easily have been taken for a shorter, fatter embodiment of a recent President of the United States.

As usual in the park, New York's fitness freaks were out in force. This morning Michael Leapman was among them. He'd asked for an urgent audience with Gatti, and this was the arrangement, a refreshing variation on the working breakfast. Having spotted the group, he raised his pace and strode across to meet them. He was one of those envied beings who rarely take exercise, but succeed in keeping in shape.

"Hi, Mr. Gatti."

They had met before, through a chain of intermediaries too tedious to list. Leapman's inside knowledge of the drug industry-the legitimate drug industry-had appealed to Gatti. In the depressed world of finance, pharmaceuticals were one of the few commodities that promised good returns. Medical supplies were necessities, and as nearly recession-proof as anything could be. A stake in the industry was what Leapman had offered, and Gatti had found it irresistible.

Gatti may have nodded in response to the greeting, or the dip of the head may have been part of his running action. It wasn't in his nature to greet people, even in less demanding circumstances. After just a few minutes of slow jogging, he was moving with a spastic jerkiness and taking noisy gulps of air.

A long exchange was clearly out of the question, so Leapman drew alongside and came quickly to the point "There's a hitch in our arrangement, I'm sorry to say."

Gatti stopped jogging and turned away from Leapman, flapping his hands at his entourage to step back and give him some privacy. They reversed several paces. The procession set off again with a decent gap in the ranks.

"What are you trying to tell me?"

Leapman resumed, "Manny Flexner saw his doctor for a checkup and found that he has only a few months to live."

"So?"

"So that's the problem."

"His problem, not mine," Gatti wheezed.

"With respect, it isn't so simple as mat He says he's going to step down."

"Resign?"

"Yes."

"What's wrong with that?"

"He wants to nominate his son to replace him."

"He has a son?"

"Yes."

"You didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gatti. I know I should have mentioned k before now. I didn't rate David Flexner at all. He takes no interest in the business."

"Is he on the Board?"

"Yes, but-"

"You didn't rate him, huh?"

"Well, no."

"Flexner's own son? You didn't rate him?"

The questions appeared to indict Leapman and he was becoming alarmed. "He sits through the Board meetings and says nothing," he said in his own defense.

Massimo Gatti stopped running again. The pursuers stopped, too far off to overhear anything. Leapman stood tamely, waiting for Gatti to recover his bream. "We made an agreement, Mr. Leapman," the little man eventually succeeded in saying. "You needed funds. You came to me with a proposition. Fine. My people were impressed with your scheme. So we backed you. We did as you suggested. We took out the factory in Milano. And two good men were killed."

Horrified, Leapman was quick to say, "That wasn't my suggestion, Mr. Gatti. You wanted to buy in at the lowest price. I wouldn't have recommended arson."

"Good men killed," Gatti reiterated. "For nothing."

"Not for nothing. Let's be frank-the fire achieved what you wanted. Manflex shares plunged on the news. The price recovered a little after you started buying. It was you, wasn't it? You and your associates, buying at rock-bottom prices?"

There was no response.

"The shareholders are losing confidence," Leapman insisted. "Manny Flexner's position as Chairman is untenable. I'm certain I could have achieved a boardroom coup. Manny has no rescue plan. The cupboard is bare."

"So what's different?"

"He's dying, and it's altered the equation. People who would have supported me are going to back his son out of sympathy or loyalty. Manny's dying wish and all that crap. There's no way I can pull this off right now."

Gatti stared at him. "Mr. Leapman, I don't give a shit who is Chairman. You enter a billion-dollar agreement with me, you deliver. You know what happens when an agreement breaks down."

Just three days after his arrival in Italy, David Flexner was installed in a temporary office suite in Milan with telephone system, fax machine, photocopier, word processor, computer and PA-whose name, fittingly, was Pia. She had short, Titian-red hair and garnet-colored eyes. Pia was so watchable that David had instantly decided she would get the female lead if he ever actually got to make a film in Italy, never mind whether she could act. The fact that she also spoke English like a BBC newscaster and could use all the hardware seemed of trifling importance when she first walked in. She was not, he hazarded from the swing of her hips, a diehard feminist Nor, for that matter, was he.

Diverting as the gorgeous Pia was, in the crisis resulting from the fire there wasn't time to observe her. Rico Villa had set up appointments with the insurers, the union representatives, the employment office and the main city newspapers, who would be the chief means of getting information to the staff. A meeting of all the Manflex Italia employees had been set for the following Saturday morning. They were to gather in a cinema southwest of the city. By then David would have something positive to offer in the way of redundancy terms. He'd spent yesterday with the accountants. Reluctant as he was to devote his life to the pharmaceuticals industry, what had happened in Italy was a problem he could handle with energy and sensitivity. Hundreds of people had lost their livelihood, and he would do his damnedest to treat them decently and fairly.

Towards the end of Thursday afternoon, Pia swanned in with two men who were definitely not on the roll. They were far too brash to be employees. They studied David with long, level looks as if mentally measuring him for his coffin. Unwilling to be intimidated, he made it obvious that he was assessing them, their off-the-rack suits and their uninteresting striped ties. One, in his forties, had his hair trimmed to about half an inch. "These gentlemen are from the police," Pia said superfluously. She turned to check on their names. They spoke no English, apparently. The short-haired one was a Commissioner, which sounded pretty senior. His name was Dordoni. The other must have been too low in rank to merit an introduction.

"Do you have any information about the fire yet?" David asked, getting in first.

Pia translated, listened and then gave the response, which was not an answer. "The Commissioner is asking for a list of all the staff employed at the plant"

"No problem. We can provide that."

"He wants a check on everybody."

"A check?"

"To know if they are still alive."

"That isn't so simple. Would you explain to him that we're not in contact with everyone. We're having this meeting Saturday and we'll take names there. What is this about? My understanding is that no one was killed in the fire."

The translation process began again. Commissioner Dor-doni spoke rapidly, as if irritated by the delays, looking directly at David with moist, black eyes that reminded him of fresh sheep droppings.

"He says a car…" Pia stopped and checked something with Dordoni. "… an Alfa Romeo Veloce saloon, crashed on a country road three thousand meters-that's about two miles-from Manflex Italia on the evening of the fire; The petrol tank ruptured and the wreck was badly burned." She turned back to Dordoni for more of the story in Italian, and presently added, "The remains of two men were found. Badly burned. Very badly. They have not been identified."