Wu Ming - 54

‘With Darko too, isn’t that right?’ Pierre intervened, kicking a pine tree.

‘With him too. I’m alone. In the village they think I’m mad. They’re ignorant enough not to know why I’ve come up here. They buy my cheese, and they’re afraid of the Mauser and the dogs. That’s our relationship. Just that.’

Vittorio drew himself to his feet. He brought a hand to the small of his back, and stretched himself. ‘The damp is killing me,’ he observed with resignation. Then he slipped two fingers between his lips and whistled loudly. From a low bush there emerged a sheepdog that Pierre hadn’t noticed before. It came bounding down the slope, and stopped in front of Vittorio, to have its muzzle stroked. His master complied, then held his arm in front of him and allowed the dog to snap at it playfully. He picked up a leather bag and slung it over his shoulder. The moment his back was turned, the dog charged up the hill, barking at the goats to get them to assemble.

‘What’s his name?’ asked Pierre, enthralled by the dog’s skill at corralling the herd.

‘Radko,’ his father replied, clapping his hands to impose an aboutturn on a ginger ram.

Radko seemed to understand that he was being talked about, and came down to sniff the new arrival.

‘He seems more sociable with strangers than you,’ commented Pierre, at the sight of the dog’s joyfully wagging tail.

‘Sure. But you have to see what he turns into if you try even to raise your voice at yours truly.’

Pierre put it to the test. Radko immediately started snarling, his fangs bared, crouching and ready to jump.

‘OK, OK, I was joking.’

He raised his arms in the air, to demonstrate his innocence.

Radko went back to his master, who had been walking in the dusty path. He joined him, darting ahead every now and again.

Pierre watched their progress, in the noonday sun, against the background of a choppy sea.

Chapter 43

Naples, 19 April

Something had changed, inside. He was upset, bloated, he’d lost his perspective on things. Blind. And mute. Not deaf, he could still hear properly. Perhaps it was the accumulated damp of that dusty hovel, or the dust itself, or the rough hands of that guy who had shaken him like that. Perhaps it was a depression caused by the unforgiving nature of his surroundings. But once everything was sorted out he could get going again. He would be able to get out of that insalubrious place, which was unworthy of him: you had to have confidence. Full stop.

What was the president always saying to his men? ‘On the wings of our products and of technological progress, borders will be eliminated. You will be at home anywhere in the world!’

Exactly. That was how it would be. Although, logically, you had to allow for the initial backwardness of the people that the latest models reached. It was all a matter of time and habit.

He felt like a pioneer. The Pilgrim Fathers’ route retraced to dispense a new Word, to display the new miracle. Endangering his own safety at the clumsy hands of four troglodytes was the smallest possible stake for such an important game.

The president got it right: ‘When you go around the world, be proud to be Western. Bear the message of your country proudly. You will find your place.’

He was a McGuffin. He had a mission.

‘Gigino, Ciro Stecchino dropped by, he says his girlfriend’s dying to have one, he’s going to come in tomorrow and talk money, keep it for him, set it to one side, he really wants it.’

You see?

Chapter 44

Somewhere near Colchester, Essex, UK, 24 April

He was in a terrible mood.

He hadn’t had a minute’s sleep. The military plane that had brought him from the United States was the most uncomfortable crock it had ever been his misfortune to travel in: poor air pressure, noisy, freezing. It had landed at the military airport near London, just long enough for a piss, and had set off again straight away. This time it was a Bentley with all mod cons, right into the heart of Essex, to the country home of Sir Charles Tilston Bright. He hoped he would at least be able to shower.

The English countryside was soporific. Cary didn’t agree with those who said it was boring. Certainly, it lacked the variety of a mountain vista, or even the romantic touch of a coast over the sea, but if you made an effort there was a certain fascination in the succession of identical ploughed fields, cottages and rows of trees. There was the possibility of something happening, especially when the fog came down like the dry ice that conjurors use to make their performances more spectacular. Any kind of situation could come out of the top hat, even a secret meeting between a famous Hollywood actor and a head of British intelligence with an interest in a film about Marshal Tito.

He was awoken by the ticking of the indicator, and saw the bonnet of the Bentley heading towards a metal gate and entering the drive of a little Victorian-style villa.

A gale swept the landscape, raging against the doors of the car and tearing at the hat that Cary was tempted to let it have, feigning an accident just to get rid of it. He turned up the collar of his coat and followed the chauffeur to the back of the building. The front door was locked.

They passed through several rooms that not a single ray of light penetrated, before the chauffeur threw open a door and, standing in the doorway, stiffly announced the guest.

‘Mr Kaplan has arrived, Sir Charles.’

Cary took a few steps forwards. The room was tastefully furnished and filled with a pleasant smell of wood and tobacco. The man who must have been Sir Charles Tilston Bright came towards him, extending his hand. Cary looked at him and had to admit that the man had a certain style. A relaxed gait, a sincere smile, clear, deep eyes, wearing classic weekend-in-the-country clothes, down to a neckerchief that puffed elegantly from his pullover.

‘Welcome to Wilford, Mr Grant. And welcome back to England. Have you been away for long?’

‘Since the last time I visited my mother,’ Cary broke in. He wasn’t in the mood for nostalgic observations about the old country. He could leave that to retired colonels.

As they made themselves comfortable on their little sofas, Sir Charles gave a slight cough: ‘Forgive me, but we haven’t told the chauffeur your identity. Apart from me and my closest collaborators, everyone else thinks they are dealing with George Kaplan, an agent returning from the United States with important information to pass on to us.’

‘A sensible precaution,’ replied Cary, ‘and my compliments on your house, Sir Charles, it really is enchanting. Although, to be honest, after ten hours on that infernal aeroplane, I would have been just as comfortable in a garage.’

Sir Charles laughed loudly, perhaps out of embarrassment, or perhaps because the humorous approach was one with which he was unfamiliar.

‘Thank you, Mr Grant, the cottage has been in my family for over a hundred years, and I try to keep it cosy. Now I’ll leave the choice up to you: I imagine you must be very tired from your journey. If you wish to go up to your room, you need only ask, otherwise we can discuss the matter at hand right away, and relax later on.’

Cary took another close look at the man sitting opposite him. He ran a hand over his rough chin, and slackened the knot of his tie. Better to find out straight away what death he was going to die

‘Since we’re here, Sir Charles, I’d prefer to find out more about how I’ll be travelling. Once I know that, I’ll find it easier to sleep.’

Sir Charles poured three fingers of Scotch into two elegant glasses and handed one to the actor.

‘Well, Mr Grant,’ he said finally, sniffing the whisky, ‘I know you want to go and see your mother in Bristol, but I imagine that there might be some other requirements of which I have not been informed. I would proceed as follows: first I will explain your itinerary as it currently stands, and then we will set about satisfying any requests you might have.’