Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

He coaxed her gently, with his hands and mouth, holding back until she was almost ready before pushing into her. She strained up to meet him, head taut back for the groan that went on and on. When she spoke, the words quivered. ‘ That was properly,’ she said.

He turned onto his side, but didn’t part from her and she held him tightly, to make sure he didn’t.

‘No point in all that posturing, was there?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘Guilty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry?’

‘No.’

‘Neither am I,’ she said. ‘But then I knew I wouldn’t be.’

‘What about all those animals you were supposed to be looking after?’

‘I’ve found a hobby I like better,’ she said.

Sir Alistair Wilson stood before the easels, comparing the photographs of Henry Walsingham and Richard Semingford. Ordinary, unremarkable people, he thought. But spies and traitors always looked like ordinary people, with mortgages and bills and kids at school and cars that went wrong.

The director turned at Harkness’s entry.

‘The replies are in,’ announced the deputy, before he sat down. ‘Thrown up a couple of things about Semingford.’

‘What?’

‘He’s overdrawn, by about five hundred pounds. And there’s an affair.’

‘Don’t these damned people ever think of blackmail before they take their trousers down?’ said Wilson. ‘Who is she?’

‘Lady Billington’s secretary, a girl named Jane Williams.’

‘Background?’

‘Admiral’s daughter, from Devonport. Unmarried. Excellent grades in her civil service examinations.’

‘How old?’

‘Thirty.’

‘How old is Semingford?’

‘Forty-two.’

‘The middle-aged wish to be young again: that’s familiar too,’ said the director. ‘What about the security man?’

‘Walsingham’s financial affairs seem okay.’

‘And the Australian inquiry?’

‘Jill Walsingham’s mother had a hysterectomy,’ reported Harkness. As an afterthought, he added, ‘It appears to have been successful.’

‘Semingford’s the most likely then?’

‘I’ve told the people in Rome to concentrate upon him,’ said Harkness. ‘But it’s not much, is it?’

The other man’s caution was justified, conceded Wilson. ‘Not really,’ he agreed.

‘Going to tell Naire-Hamilton?’

‘No,’ said Wilson. ‘I’ll wait until there’s something firmer.’ He looked back at the photographs. ‘It’s taking longer than I expected.’

‘It’s only been three days.’ Harkness was surprised at the remark. ‘And this is how it’s got to be done, if they want discretion.’

‘I know,’ said Wilson. ‘I’d just like a more positive development.’

‘There is one.’

Wilson looked up.

‘Hotovy didn’t make his contact point. There were backup rendezvous spots, for succeeding days. He hasn’t shown at any of them.’

‘What have you done?’

‘Put the Czech embassy and all the residences under observation, since dawn. He’s not been seen. Or the kids.’

‘What about the wife?’

‘Still no sign that she’s returned from Brno.’

‘He’s gone then.’

‘He was genuine,’ said Harkness.

‘If he’d crossed at once, he’d have been all right.’

‘It would have been a hell of a coup, to have got him.’

‘So it will be to get the bastard in Rome,’ said Wilson.

Igor Solomatin arrived early at Doney’s, wanting a pavement table from which he could see in both directions along the Via Veneto: he had people placed to guarantee that the Italian arrived alone, but still wanted personally to be sure. The evening promenade swirled back and forth in front of him. A parade of peacocks, thought the Russian. It wasn’t criticism. The reverse, in fact. Solomatin knew he’d miss it. He’d miss the svelte, fur-coated women who always seemed to favour beige, and immaculate men whose shoes were always polished and who didn’t look effeminate carrying wrist bags. And being able to sit outside cafes like now, and have waiters appear content to serve him instead of enduring the belligerent truculence of the steam-filled caverns of Moscow. And the clothes. Solomatin did not have the bulky Russian heaviness: he’d been chosen for the posting because the slightness, black hair and black eyes fitted easily into the Latin surroundings. Reverting to the square-shouldered, trouser-flapping creations of Moscow would be one of the small regrets he’d have. But very small. The Russian capital was where the promotion was: and Solomatin knew his promotion was inevitable after what was going to happen here. He’d been extremely fortunate.

Solomatin monitored the approach and checked the safety signals of his ground men before waving to the Italian whom he had cultivated for the past six months. Emilio Fantani was no longer the male prostitute he had been when he first arrived in Rome, but he still swayed between the tables with hip-swivelling suggestiveness. Solomatin noticed the eyes of several interested men as well as hopeful women follow the movement. Although he admired them, the clothes were too gaudy for Solomatin, silk floral shirt, black trousers and chamois jacket so thin as to be almost transparent, slung casually across the Italian’s shoulders. Fantani had a jangle of gold bracelets on either wrist, in addition to the Cartier watch, and there was gold, too, circling his throat. He was a thin, wiry man, never appearing properly relaxed, with eyes that flickered constantly. Solomatin had never decided if he were seeking danger or prey.

When he reached the table, Fantani seemed out of breath, which Solomatin knew to be an affectation. ‘I’ve kept you. Forgive me,’ he said.

‘I was early.’ Solomatin always spoke carefully when addressing Fantani, not because of any problem with his vocabulary, which was excellent, but because of his accent. Fantani had been born in a peasant hut in Calabria, one of the poorest regions in Italy, but had lived off his wits in Rome since he was fourteen. He had a street-wise intelligence that was often disconcerting. Shortly after they met, Fantani had suddenly questioned Solomatin’s pronunciation and queried outright whether he was Italian. Solomatin had talked of his birth in Tarvisio, on the Austrian border and of being brought up bi-lingually. Fantani appeared to accept it but at the time it frightened the Russian.

They shook hands and Fantani said, ‘I was pleased to get your call.’

With every reason, thought Solomatin. It had been a careful softening-up period to convince Fantani he was being considered for graduation from cat burglar to organized crime. They had provided the man with four perfect robberies, with alarm systems and house plans and safe combinations that had taken the KGB squad months to assemble.

‘It’s big,’ said Solomatin. ‘I wanted to get everything right.’

A waiter came over and Fantani quickly ordered an Americano, impatient with the interruption.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Jewellery.’

‘Where?’

‘The British ambassador has a villa at Ostia. It’s in the safe there.’

Fantani’s face creased. ‘That’s not just a robbery,’ he said. ‘That’s political.’

More than you think, thought Solomatin. He said, ‘You’re not scared?’

‘The security will be strong.’

‘I’ve got all the details.’

‘It’ll be difficult to fence.’

‘It’ll be impossible,’ said Solomatin. ‘More than half is antique. It would be identified at once.’

Fantani stopped with the drink halfway to his lips. ‘What’s the point of stealing what we can’t get rid of?’

‘We’re going to sell it back.’

‘To the ambassador?’