Gavin Lyall - Flight From Honour

“Mebbe. But ’tis the field that matters.”

Ranklin looked around at the landscape and it wasn’t frightening, just totally unfamiliar. The dark shape of Venice was sparked with lights like diamonds on a dung-heap, then inland a spatter of sparks that must be Mestre, but beyond it lay nothing. For the first time he thought of night as something tangible, a black flood that had settled on the land.

But at least he could see the coastline and river banks as the water dutifully reflected even the thin starlight. Just follow the river and they should wind up close to the house. Fairly close anyway.

On his side of the cockpit, O’Gilroy was sweating. He’d managed to sound confident about flying at night, and the takeoff had fooled him into thinking he might be right. But the step from two dimensions into the freedom of three was never tricky. Now the glib conviction that he’d be able to see enough was dimmed; darkness made everything not only dark but fuzzy, like a thick coating of soot. The instruments didn’t matter; he could feel the speed and hear the engine revs. But he had to see the faint line of the horizon, and occasionally he lost it behind the wing and the aeroplane wavered as he fought a dreadful dizziness. If you couldn’t see which way up you were, you died. That was the law, as simple as gravity.

And when it came to landing, to shedding that extra dimension . . . He’d made Ranklin carry a length of rag, soaked in both oil and petrol and wrapped around a stone, to light and throw out as a landing flare. And the man had trustingly accepted that that made everything all right, that now O’Gilroy could cope. Officers could be so gullible.

Only now O’Gilroy had to cope . . . Officers could be so crafty.

Quite unaware of all this, Ranklin called: “Have you got a pistol with you?”

“No. Mrs Finn said ’twas a jailing matter in Italy. Have ye one yeself?”

“No. A marvellous pair of secret agents we are.” He thought about the possibilities. “Did Corinna leave hers behind?”

“Not her.” No, Corinna believed laws applied only to others. It was infuriating how often she was right.

“It should be in her room, then. She may be asleep there . . . Can we sneak in?”

“Not so easy. And we’re not there yet . . .”

The villas were strung along the north bank of the Brenta, and O’Gilroy was keeping well to the south so that he could see the river to the right without leaning over. At that range, only a line of occasional lights – wondrously sharp and unsooty – showed there were any houses at all. But the distance meant, he hoped, that nobody at the villa would hear the engine, particularly if they were in the central hall, where the telephone was.

Trying to recognise the outlines of the landing-stages on the river was no help: they all had landing-stages. But now the white villas themselves showed as taint blurs of not-quite-darkness contrasting with the extra-darkness of tall trees around them. The Falcone villa had no tall trees.

Ranklin was also staring. He turned to ask: “D’you think we’re there yet?”

“Hope we’ve passed it.” O’Gilroy curved right, edging across the Brenta and then the line of villas, to reverse his course out on the tar side of them. Now he looked for the pasture where he should land, but without losing sight of the villa that might be the one-

Ranklin said: “If they’re expecting Falcone back, there should be outside lights on.”

Bless the man. Only two villas showed such lights. Which meant that that must be Falcone’s, and that the landing-field ahead. Now that he was heading east, the horizon was more distinct with just the slightest paleness of the new day. But real light was half an hour away, and twilight a treacherous time when you imagined more than you saw. This landing was going to be real, not imagined.

“Right, Captain: light the flare.”

He felt, more than saw, Ranklin lean down to strike a match. He himself kept his head turned away to save his eyesight, but turning the aeroplane to lean Ranklin towards the ground. He heard a curse as one match failed, then the cockpit exploded with light and he shut his eyes.

Ranklin said: “Christ!” Then: “It’s gone.”

O’Gilroy reversed the turn and saw the fluttering spark getting smaller against the dark pasture. Then stop, almost vanish, and flare up again.

“Right.” He snapped off the ignition and tilted the aeroplane down, keeping the speed – the tune from the wires – high, and weaving gently, like a man moving his head to judge the distance, watching the angle between the flame and the horizon close and close . . . Back on the stick, and the wires hummed lower, too much, stick forward again, and back, forward-

“Brace yeself,” he warned. “May not be me best-”

They hit.

The wrought-iron gates of the villa had been left open, and they slipped through, past a small old car that O’Gilroy didn’t recognise, and through shrubs and dwarf cypresses around to the back of the house, away from the lights. By then, Ranklin appreciated the problem: Palladio had believed in high, airy ground-floor rooms, so the bedrooms were a long way up. And up plain stucco’d walls with no foot- and hand-holds, except the drainpipes added in later years. These were tucked within the corners where the portico joined the main wall, and from the portico roof you could reach small windows on either side.

“Tis me own bedroom up there,” O’Gilroy whispered. “Almost legal, ye might say.”

“Can you do it?”

“Like enough.” He grasped the pipe: it was fat and solid. “Surely.”

They went softly across the terrace to the french windows. Inside was a short, doorless corridor into the main hall; at the opposite side of the villa, a similar corridor led to the front door. The hall was lit, and there was occasional movement.

After a couple of minutes, O’Gilroy whispered: “I see two of them.”

“Yes.” Ranklin thought he recognised the man from the taxi at the Ritz, Silvio. He didn’t know the second man, actually Jankovic, but wasn’t surprised that there were two. You could hardly hold captive a house full of servants single-handed. “I can’t see either of the women.”

“Be sitting down . . . That’s Mrs Finn, to the right, wearing blue.”

“Thank God.” They backed away along the terrace.

“Captain,” O’Gilroy said, “if’n no harm’s come to Mrs Finn yet, I’m thinking she’s safe until Falcone gets back anyhow. So why’nt we stop him on the road? – he’ll mebbe have a gun. And now we know there’s two of them . . .”

“All right.” They started back around the house. “Will you know his car?”

“Seems he’s got dozens. Won’t be small, anyhow.”

“Then we’ll stop everything.”

But there was nothing to stop. A farm cart plodded past, going the other way, then they just stood and began to shiver in the pre-dawn air.

After a while, Ranklin said: “I want to be quite clear what we’re doing. We’re going into that house only because Corinna’s there, no other reason. And I think we can get her out more safely than the Carabiniere – the police.”

“Surely we can.”

“And if you go inside, you’ll be closest to her.”

“I will that,” O’Gilroy said evenly.

“I just wanted to be sure.” After another while, he said: “I’d rather like to take one of those men alive and confessing who sent them. It was a police captain in Trieste and I’d like to see him disgraced, dismissed – for purely professional reasons.”

Far down the road, headlights flickered between the trees. O’Gilroy said: “Jest professional reasons.”

“That’s right. So that I can go back there some day.”