Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why?’

Wilson’s whole body appeared to deflate. ‘He’s a traitor,’ he said simply. ‘Seven years ago he wrecked an intelligence department.’

Billington laughed uncertainly. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘I wish I weren’t.’

‘Good God!’

‘I want to know everything,’ said Wilson.

‘There’s little to tell. I warned my underwriter I wanted the jewellery revalued, according to the policy terms and they sent this man. He spent two days at the villa, checking the security and itemizing the pieces. Then he came on the day of the robbery and told me the thieves would most likely offer it back, at a price. And asked me to cooperate…’

‘What happened tonight?’ demanded the intelligence director.

‘I had a call from Walsingham about an hour ago. He said Muffin had contacted him and that an exchange had been agreed. He was meeting him and hoped to recover the jewellery.’

From the surveillance already imposed, Wilson knew the security man was still in his apartment. And there were five men outside, waiting to follow wherever he went.

‘Did he say where the meeting was taking place?’

‘Some apartment complex on the Via Salaria… 35, I think. Yes, 35.’

‘What time?’

‘Eight forty-five.’

Wilson and Naire-Hamilton looked at their watches simultaneously. ‘Still more than an hour,’ said the Permanent Under Secretary.

‘We’re going to get him!’ said Wilson in a sudden flare of confidence.

‘What about the police?’ suggested the ambassador.

‘No!’ It was Naire-Hamilton who spoke, his voice loud. Seeming surprised at his own outburst he said more quietly. ‘Not yet.’

‘We’re risking an incident,’ said Billington.

‘We’re attempting to avoid one,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘I have ultimate responsibility here,’ said the ambassador.

‘It’s a debatable point,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘If you want a ruling I suggest you contact the Prime Minister’s office.’

‘Would someone tell me what’s going on?’ demanded Billington.

Henry Walsingham let his car coast slowly along the Via Salaria as he strained through the darkness to make out the numbering. The rush-hour traffic was still heavy and there were hoots of irritation from behind him. The security man parked and checked the time, relieved that he was five minutes early. He felt like he had during the army exercises, particularly on the plains of Germany, with men behind him and hoping to Christ he didn’t make a ridiculous mistake.

He got out, unaware of the two following cars that had stopped a hundred yards away. For a moment Walsingham stared up at the jagged rooftops outlined against the night sky and then pushed through the centre door as instructed. He found the pushlight which dimly illuminated the stairs curling away from him. There was no lift. Walsingham climbed steadily, pausing on the first and second landings for the light switch.

Number 35 faced him, as he came puffing to the third floor. He listened at the door for voices and heard nothing. His first knock was hesitant. There was no reply. He rapped again more forcefully.

Solomatin opened the door and said in Italian, ‘I’m glad you’re not late: come in.’

As Walsingham stepped forward, Leonov crossed the landing from the linking corridor entrance opposite. There was a shot no louder than the heavy closing of a door. The impact forced Walsingham across the room, arms outstretched. His body slid when it hit the floor so that one hand was almost touching Fantani’s.

‘Go on!’ said Leonov urgently.

Solomatin knelt down and edged a key into Walsingham’s pocket, pulling hurriedly back as soon as he had done it. Leonov tossed the gun down beside the body, and followed Solomatin out. They were through into the adjoining building and making for the rear fire escape when Wilson’s car stopped behind the observer team already in position.

Sir Alistair Wilson deferred to Jackson’s experience as a field operator. During the short drive from the embassy he briefed the supervisor and then held back while Jackson organized the surveillance teams. The director’s car, which was being used for control, was moved from the Via Salaria to a cul-de-sac opposite. Jackson reversed the vehicle into it and extinguished the lights.

‘How long?’ he asked the director.

‘Twenty minutes, according to Walsingham.’

Jackson quickly left the car, crossing to the apartment block and paced out a distance, checking to see if their vehicles were conspicuous. He dodged back between the traffic and sat heavily into the driving seat. ‘Good enough,’ he said.

‘Everybody understands?’

‘Perfectly. They’re to let him go in and then seal the place.’

The director stared across at the building. ‘Looks like a warren.’

‘Well chosen.’

Wilson grunted.

‘What happens if he doesn’t show up on time?’

‘We give it fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘And then go in.’

‘What do you think he’s doing here?’

‘Whatever it is, he’s the key. He’s got to be.’

Along the main highway in front of them traffic fireflied by in a continuous flicker of lights. In the cul-de-sac vehicles were parked in careless Rome fashion, half on and half off the pavement. There were bicycles secured to railings by chains.

‘How much damage did he really do?’

‘A lot,’ said Wilson. ‘The CIA director, as well as our own controller, was seized, for exchange with a spy of their own. It’s taken years to build up confidence with Washington again. Kalenin was supposed to be crossing into Vienna: the Americans had put in almost a hundred people on the ground and we matched them, man for man. It was obviously impractical to take them all back into Czechoslovakia. The Russians fingerprinted and photographed the bloody lot of them.’

‘Bastard.’

Wilson looked apprehensively to the man beside him. ‘I don’t want him hurt,’ he said. ‘Not until I can gauge the extent of the damage.’

‘We’ll wait,’ said Jackson.

Wilson tensed as the car stopped opposite but relaxed as a young couple got out, laughing and hugging. He massaged the joint of his stiffened leg. It wasn’t cold so there was no reason for it to ache.

Conscious of the movement, Jackson said from beside him. ‘Waiting always screws me up.’

‘We’ve been waiting a long time for this one,’ said Wilson.

Charlie had become engulfed in the rush hour on the outskirts of the city, stop-starting his way through the congestion. Impatiently he had tried short cuts, guessing the general direction, and become blocked by even worse jams. He’d fought against the irritation, knowing it was pointless, and submitted at last to the slow crawl.

It was seven thirty before he approached the centre of Rome and three stops before he found someone with sufficient English to explain the route. But once in the Via Salaria Charlie had little problem finding the number.

It was bad. Unprotected and carrying half a million pounds, he was having to walk into a bloody great building in which a hundred villains could be hiding, just waiting for his head to emerge around a stairwell. In the old days he’d have had twenty men already moving through the building disguised as cleaners, janitors and repair men. And another squad outside, for additional protection. Charlie scratched his nose. He’d buggered it up and the old days were gone for ever. He considered taking a tyre lever from the boot but quickly dismissed it; if there were to be an ambush, a tyre lever would be about as effective as spitting at a house fire.

Charlie checked the mirror until the traffic eased and then got out of the car, pulling the case behind him. Instinctively he looked both ways along the road, squinting to see into the parked vehicles; it looked safe enough, but in a place like this it was impossible to be sure without back-up.