Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘Where shall we meet?’ said Charlie.

‘Further down this street at the corner of the Via Ludovisi there’s a public telephone kiosk. Be there at noon. You’ll be called and told what to do.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Charlie.

‘Be by yourself. You’ll be watched all the time. If there’s any sign of a policeman, it’s off.’

‘I’ll be alone,’ said Charlie.

‘Until tomorrow then.’ The Italian shrugged the jacket closer around his shoulders to keep the sling under cover and made an elegant exit from the bar. Probably danced a hell of a tango, thought Charlie. He didn’t hurry to leave, holding the glass before him in both hands and staring down into the amber liquid. Everything had gone according to plan. But it just didn’t feel right. It was a nagging, persistent uncertainty, like a stone in his shoe. Unable to resolve it, he beckoned the barman, paid and left the bar.

Outside, the street was thick with people, cars and noise. Charlie threaded his way down the Via Veneto, marking the telephone that had been identified. Moro would have reacted to his evasion by now and would be concentrating upon the hotel as the only known contact point. So he couldn’t go back immediately. Charlie chose a post office with an overseas telephone section. There was no line congestion, so Charlie was connected at once. Willoughby’s anxiety was obvious.

‘Thank God,’ he said.

‘Keep praying until I’ve bought it back,’ said Charlie.

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred thousand. In sterling.’

Willoughby’s sigh of relief was audible.

‘Is that going to be possible?’ Charlie decided against telling the underwriter how he intended to recover the buy-back money.

‘Just about,’ said Willoughby. ‘I’m indebted to you, Charlie. Where do you want it sent?’

‘The main Bank of Rome.’

‘It should be there first thing tomorrow.’

Which would give him sufficient time to record the numbers.

‘Charlie,’ blurted the underwriter.

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Just sorry,’ said Willoughby, breaking the connection.

Charlie queued patiently to pay for the call. If there were an apology, it should have been his to the underwriter, he thought.

As he walked back to the Grand Ville up the gently sloping streets, Charlie determined to keep Walsingham out of it at this stage, wanting to restrict his contact with the embassy to the minimum. About fifty yards from the hotel, Charlie saw the car with the boot antennae move and knew they’d seen him. It accelerated too fast and stopped too quickly, so there was a screech of brakes and people turned.

The man in the blue suit had the door open before the car stopped.

‘Get in,’ he said. His shoes were still stained with horse piss.

Inspector Moro was quite calm, which increased the sense of menace. He lounged back from the crowded desk, eyes fixed on the ceiling and talking in a consciously controlled voice. His jacket was rucked up from his shoulders, heightening the skin-shedding appearance.

‘I warned you,’ he said. ‘I warned you and you ignored me.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You dodged from a taxi in the Via del Corso to another that took you to the railway terminal,’ said Moro. ‘There you immediately got into a third car which took you to the top of the Via Veneto. We traced you that far.’

‘I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t.’

The reply seemed to confuse the inspector. ‘I told you there were to be no arrangements without my being involved. You ignored me. Who did you meet?’

‘No one.’

‘Don’t treat me like a fool.’ Moro’s voice rose for the first time.

‘Don’t treat me like a criminal.’

‘What!’

‘I agreed to do nothing without telling you first,’ said Charlie. ‘It was an undertaking I intended to keep. Having given my word, I don’t expect to be pursued everywhere I go.’

‘Are you saying you evaded my people as some sort of stupid protest?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘And to prove their ineffectiveness.’ It didn’t sound as good as he’d hoped it would; in fact it sounded bloody awful.

‘ I decide how to run an investigation: whether or not to impose surveillance,’ said Moro.

‘If you weren’t going to trust me there was little purpose in our agreeing to an arrangement in the first place.’

The policeman had not expected attack and was finding it difficult to adjust. ‘I meant it,’ he said. ‘About what I would do if you tried anything independently.’

‘I never doubted you for a second.’ Now was the moment to change his mind, to admit everything and go with Moro through the records until they got a name. If he did that, the entrapment would never work; not the sort the police would attempt. Charlie said nothing.

‘Did you have a meeting with anyone today?’ repeated the policeman.

‘No.’ Now he was committed.

‘If I find that to be a lie, then you’re guilty of impeding a police investigation.’

‘I know that.’

‘I want to know anything, the moment it happens,’ said Moro.

‘You said that before,’ reminded Charlie.

‘This time, believe me.’

Sir Alistair Wilson replaced the telephone after Harkness’s London call and turned back into the communal suite towards Naire-Hamilton and Jackson.

‘That’s interesting,’ he said.

‘What is?’ demanded the Permanent Under Secretary.

‘Richard Semingford has written to Foreign Office personnel asking about pension entitlement and the size of the sum that’s commutable in the event of his leaving.’

Italian banks open at eight thirty in the morning. Charlie was ready early, wanting as much time as possible to list the currency numbers. Today there was no vehicle with the familiar aerial. As he walked by the Medici Hotel, a man who had been studying the tariff pushed slightly too quickly through the swing doors and Charlie smiled at the hurried avoidance. He was curious to see how they’d follow his taxi. The mobile cover was better. They’d positioned cars at intervals along the street, so that the contact would be taken up not with a vehicle pulling out in obvious pursuit but emerging first in front and then letting the taxi overtake. It was the black Lancia, decided Charlie. The driver wore a cap, as if he were the chauffeur, and the observer rode in the back reading a newspaper, but holding it in such a way that his view of the taxi wasn’t obscured. Charlie knew there wouldn’t be any second chance, if anything went wrong.

At the Bank of Rome an assistant manager took him to a deputy manager and the deputy manager took him to the manager. Charlie produced his accreditation from Rupert Willoughby and the manager confirmed that the money draft had been received the previous night. Charlie stipulated cash rather than a letter of credit and asked for the numbers to be run through a computer for record. The manager allowed a brief expression of irritation and summoned back the deputy manager. Together they went to the basement and the notes were distributed between two programmers. It took two hours to complete the list. Charlie ascended to the manager’s office, calculating that by now Moro would have the exterior of the building under siege.

‘Thank you for your assistance,’ said Charlie.

Believing Charlie wanted the numbers recorded against loss, the manager said, ‘A letter of credit would have been simpler.’

‘I’m afraid my client insists upon cash.’

‘Of course,’ said the manager, eager to terminate the meeting.

‘But I accept the danger,’ said Charlie. ‘I wonder if I can impose upon you a little more?’

The manager frowned.