Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

Life was good, decided Fantani. And going to get better. A lot better. It had taken long enough; nearly fifteen years of screwing and being screwed, trinket stealing from those who wouldn’t risk complaint, and then the gradual reputation as a competent craftsman. He knew it was the reputation that had prompted the approach. Only two arrests and both unimportant. It was the sort of thing the big organizers liked: style and expertise. Fantani had no doubt whom he was working for; who else but the Mafia had the organization to get the details he’d been provided with? It had been a trial period; with this the final test. When he passed he’d learn who the man was. Fantani was sure the name wasn’t Jacono. But he’d never shown any curiosity or tried to question. They respected attitudes like that. Style, thought Fantani again.

Driving back towards Ostia, Fantani saw that, because of a kink in the coastline, the sun was setting on the landward, not the seaward, side, which was an advantage: already, to his left, the darkness was merging the clifftop blackly with the water. Fantani took the Fiat up a track, so that it would be completely concealed from the road, and stood against the open boot, changing into the clothing in which he worked. Everything was black for concealment, even the canvas shoes. Before putting on the sweater, he taped to one wrist the electrical bypass leads and to the other the glass-cutter. He kept the trouser pockets free for ease of movement but carefully zipped inside the cotton windcheater the collapsible silk bag, the plans of the villa and its burglar protection, the doctor’s stethoscope with a shortened length of tubing, and the tape roll. Satisfied with his preparations, he completed the last part of the ritual, relieving himself against the wheel of the car.

He positioned himself carefully during the final approach to the villa neither too near the road, where he would be visible to passing vehicles, nor too near the cliff edge, where he might be seen against the slightly lighter skyline. Three times cars swept along the coast road but on each occasion their lights warned him long before their arrival and he was crouched low and completely hidden when they passed.

He was adjusted to the darkness when he got to the villa perimeter, conscious of the solid blackness of the wall. Near to it, Fantani squatted, settling himself for the wait, head tensed to one side for any animal or human sound to indicate a regular patrol he’d failed to detect from the overlooking hill. It was thirty minutes before he moved, sure there was none.

Near the clifltop the wind was stronger, blowing harder against him than he had expected. He hoped it wouldn’t cause difficulties. Where the wall ended he crouched again, gazing out at the fan-like half-circle, wanting to impress everything about it into his mind. There were about forty spikes, spear-shaped at their ends and patterned together by looped metal spokes radiating outwards; closer, Fantani saw it exactly like a spider’s web cut in half. He groped about his feet, discarding the first two things his hand encountered and finally locating a stick stout enough for the purpose. He edged closer, so he wouldn’t be defeated by the wind, and threw it at the metal, eyes half closed for a spark of contact if the electrification had been continued in some way he hadn’t identified. The twig hit the metal, without any flash, lodged for a few moments between one of the supporting arms and fell away into the darkness below. Fantani was able to trace its descent, because floodlights had been switched on from the villa. By leaning out slightly he could look down at the ambassador’s private beach. At the foot of the cliff a jetty nosed out into the black water and a speedboat jostled at a mooring.

Fantani spread his hands along his thighs, massaging them in readiness for the jump, taking in deep breaths to calm himself. The wind was gusting and he stayed crouched, waiting for it to drop. He started to go and faltered, settling down again, angry at the hesitation. He squeezed the tension out of his hands, coiled ready, and when the wind lessened launched himself outwards. He leaped spreadeagled, arms and legs wide for any support, aiming for the widest part of the half-circle. The villa floodlighting helped, silhouetting the outline as he arced towards it, over the four-hundred metre drop.

Fantani landed well, both hands connecting with one of the horizontal bars and his left foot slotting into place. He winced as his unsupported right shin hit the metal before he got a foothold there. He was completely exposed now, like some insect trapped in the spider’s web of metal, the wind plucking at his clothing and strong enough to sting his eyes. He hung there, recovering his composure, and then crabbed out further, towards the speared ends. Near the edge he paused, preparing himself for the strain. He propped his right arm inside the furthermost spoke and wedged his foot. For several seconds he hung, with his left arm and leg dangling free and unsupported, then he grabbed around the points, snatching for purchase on the other side. The tips pressed against the entire length of his body as if he were being impaled, and he winced against the pressure; they were sharper than he had expected them to be. First his hand and then his leg connected. He gripped tightly, anchoring his body, then released his right hand and pulled himself in a swinging manoeuvre around the barrier to gain the villa side.

Fantani had to climb up the web to bring himself level with the cliff and feel with his foot, without being able to look backwards, for solid ground. With a toehold, he levered himself further onto the cliff. Fantani was stretched out now, feet on the cliff and hands clinging to the metal struts, his back bent painfully between. Using the strength from his shoulders, Fantani heaved himself up onto the cliff, until there was solid ground to the level of his chest and he could release the metal without overbalancing onto the beach below.

Fantani was panting and wet with sweat, which was drying coldly against his face and back. He was shaking and knew the coldness was only partially responsible. They’d made the final acceptance job bloody difficult.

At last he stood, vaulted the fence, and pulled into the protection of some trees; cypresses, just like the driveway. They had been planted in a regimented line, close-patterned, and the permanent shadows made perfect cover. It took him almost to the house, sufficiently close to gaze in through the uncurtained windows. It was a kitchen area, with the servants’ quarters alongside. At first he thought there were eight around the table but then a girl appeared, waiting upon the others. So the ambassador and his wife must be at the residence in Rome; that was going to make it easier.

He retreated from the lighted part of the house, still using the tree concealment to gain the darkened wall. He hunched, trying to recall from the plans inside his jacket where he was. The identified kitchen provided the guide. West wing, nearest the drive; that meant the study and drawing rooms. There were breaker points on the window sashes and verandah windows to the study, according to the plans. Fantani moved forward, confirming the layout when he got nearer. He went confidently to the drawing room window, counting first laterally and then horizontally the paned windows, isolating the third from the ground. He unstrapped the glass-cutter from his wrist and incisively arced an area. He gummed tape strips across the cut line, to prevent the glass either shattering or falling noisily into the room, and cuffed it with the heel of his hand. It broke cleanly, swinging inwards on the sticky tape hinges. Fantani eased in his hand, feeling for the connections between the doors which, if broken, would sound the alarm. They jutted out like nipples and Fantani fingered them familiarly. He took the bypass leads from his other wrist, shook out the wire to give him the maximum entry when the doors opened and went in again through the hole, attaching the alligator clips to each nipple. Fantini counted up again to get alongside the latch, and made another entry like the first. He’d been prepared for the lock to be empty, but the key was carelessly in place. He turned it, depressed the handle and, hesitating only momentarily, pushed the door open to the full extent of the bypass leads. There was no jangle of alarms.