Dave Hutchinson - Europe in Autumn

Beside the front door of the white building was a modest little brass plaque. It read: Consulate Of The Independent Trans-European Republic . Fabio was standing at the door, looking up at a camera mounted over the lintel and blowing kisses. The door made a faint clicking noise, and Fabio saluted the camera and pushed the door open.

Inside was a modest little reception room with a blue carpet and white walls and several anonymous plants standing in earthenware planters around the edges. There was a blocky white sofa facing two blocky white armchairs across a low smoked-glass coffee table. There was a pale wooden reception desk built against the back wall, and to either side of it stairs rose to the next floor. By the time Rudi had let the door close on its springs and heard the electronic lock snap shut, Fabio was already at the desk and schmoozing the auburn-haired young woman sitting behind it.

“Hazel, my dear,” he was saying in heavily-accented English – a lot more heavily-accented than his usual English, “you know it does my old man’s heart good to see you.”

“Herr Rausching,” the girl replied. A native English-speaker, Rudi thought. She was thin and pinched-faced and wearing a neat charcoal business suit over a crisp white shirt. “Working on a Saturday?”

“Something which could easily wait until Monday, but which someone in Milan believes they must have today,” Fabio said sadly. He put his hand on his heart. “Everyone in a rush. Oh, this is Rocco, by the way, my personal assistant. He may be accompanying me occasionally in future, so he’ll have to be signed into the system.” He took from his pocket a little plastic box containing a square of plastic about the size of a postage stamp. “All his details are on there, so you don’t have to go through the tedious business of typing it all in.”

Hazel regarded the flash card in its plastic box dubiously. “It’s not very regular , Herr Rausching,” she said.

“I know, I know.” Fabio essayed a great Gallic shrug. “But what can we do? I’ve been waiting for his vetting reports to come back from Security for almost a month now so he can have permanent status, but you know how they are. Every ‘i’ has to be dotted, every ‘t’ crossed, and if you miss a single dot all the paperwork has to be done again. And in the meantime, I need his assistance, Hazel.” He struck his breast softly with his fist. “Hazel. Just this once, eh? Next week, the week after, the paperwork comes back from Security and he’s legitimate. All we’re doing is jumping the gun a little, that’s all. And anyway, a hundred years from now, who will care?”

Hazel looked at the box again. She looked at Rudi. Rudi smiled at her. She looked at Fabio. Fabio smiled at her.

Eventually, the wave of goodwill got the better of her. She snapped the flash card out of its box and slid it into a little box on the desk. She typed for a few moments on the keyboard in front of her, read her screen, typed some more. Then she looked at them both and smiled. “All done,” she said. She reached down below the desk and held up a little white badge. She clipped it to a lanyard and held it out to Rudi. “There you go, Rocco. Welcome to the family.”

Rudi looked at the card. It was still warm from the printer. It had his photograph embossed on the front, a row of gold contact spots along one of the short edges, and the name ‘Rocco Siffredi.’ He raised an eyebrow. “Thank you,” he said to Hazel.

“Good girl,” Fabio told her. “I always knew you’d come through for us. Didn’t I say Hazel would come through for us, Rocco?”

“You mentioned it, Herr Rausching,” said Rudi.

“Well.” Fabio picked up his case. “I owe you a favour, Hazel. Many thanks.”

“Not at all, Herr Rausching. Happy to help.”

“So. We’ll see you later. Rocco? Shall we? The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go back to Diana.”

“Danuta,” Rudi said, catching a gleam of wickedness in Fabio’s eye.

“Danuta?” Fabio asked innocently. “I’m sorry; I could have sworn you said Diana.”

Rudi shook his head. “Danuta, Herr Rausching.”

“Rocco has a fiancée,” Fabio stage-whispered to Hazel.

“Lucky Rocco,” said Hazel. She smiled at Rudi.

“This way, Rocco,” Fabio said, indicating one of the staircases. He waved goodbye to Hazel.

Halfway up the stairs, Rudi moved up close to Fabio and said very very quietly, “Rocco Siffredi was a porn star.”

“Was he?” Fabio replied, just as quietly. “Oh well.”

AT THE TOP of the stairs a corridor ran entirely around the first storey of the house, lined on the outside with windows and on the inside with ranks of numbered doors. Fabio led him to a door marked 73, took out a key card, and put it in the slot, and opened it.

Inside was a cosy little office with a desk and some easy chairs and another of those unidentifiable pot plants. A set of shelves supported a number of photographs of Fabio with his arm round a dumpy, wistful-looking woman in various outdoor settings. In the Alps. On a boat somewhere warm. At what appeared to be a Formula One motor racing event.

“Frau Rausching?” Rudi asked.

“Hannelore,” agreed Fabio. “Bless her.”

“How long have you been working here?”

Fabio looked at him for a moment, but if the office was bugged and anyone was listening, it might just be considered a legitimate question. “About eighteen months, on and off.”

Rudi nodded. Well, that was interesting. At least it explained Fabio’s occasional absences from Kraków.

“Anyway,” said Fabio. “Make yourself comfortable here for a moment. I have to pop down the corridor and consult with one of my colleagues. I’ll be back shortly.” And he left the office.

Rudi stood looking at the closed door for a minute or so after Fabio’s departure. He was surprised to discover that, on his first live Situation, he felt like a child brought to his father’s workplace.

Fabio had spent almost a week last month barking aphorisms at him. One of these had been, ‘In hostile territory, always assume you’re under surveillance.’ In the spirit of this, Rudi decided to behave like Rocco. Bored, a little resentful at being dragged away from Danuta (who in Rudi’s imagination had short blonde hair and a magnificent bust, just in case anyone asked.) He walked around the office. He looked at the photos again. Fabio and… who? Mrs Fabio? A stringer posing for some pictures in return for what looked like a fairly eventful holiday around Europe? Hard to tell, but he doubted there was a Mrs Fabio. He doubted anyone could stand Fabio long enough to get to the altar.

He went and sat behind Fabio’s desk and tried the swivel chair. He waved a hand at Fabio’s monitor and it lit up with a screensaver of a scruffy-looking Persian cat. There was no point doing anything else. He didn’t know Fabio’s passwords. And even if he did, and if, in defiance of tradecraft, Fabio kept anything interesting on the Consulate’s system, it would be encrypted, and everything else would just be part of Herr Rausching’s legend. It would be worth looking at, to backfill his own legend, but the securityware would be watching, and would wonder why he was looking at it.

Rudi looked at his watch. Ten minutes since Fabio left. He got up and walked over to the easy chairs, grouped around another of those smoked-glass-topped coffee-tables. There was a scatter of Polish lifestyle magazines on the table, and he sat down and leafed through one of them, shaking his head at the recipes. He looked at his visitors’ pass, hanging round his neck on its lanyard. Rocco Siffredi. He shook his head again.

Another ten minutes passed. The door opened. Rudi looked up from the magazine he was reading, expecting to see Fabio, but instead two shaven-headed men wearing identical suits were standing in the doorway. They had the neckless look of career steroid abusers, and little wireless headsets plugged into one ear.