‘I know,’ said Wilson. ‘I’d just like a more positive development.’
‘There is one.’
Wilson looked up.
‘Hotovy didn’t make his contact point. There were backup rendezvous spots, for succeeding days. He hasn’t shown at any of them.’
‘What have you done?’
‘Put the Czech embassy and all the residences under observation, since dawn. He’s not been seen. Or the kids.’
‘What about the wife?’
‘Still no sign that she’s returned from Brno.’
‘He’s gone then.’
‘He was genuine,’ said Harkness.
‘If he’d crossed at once, he’d have been all right.’
‘It would have been a hell of a coup, to have got him.’
‘So it will be to get the bastard in Rome,’ said Wilson.
10
Igor Solomatin arrived early at Doney’s, wanting a pavement table from which he could see in both directions along the Via Veneto: he had people placed to guarantee that the Italian arrived alone, but still wanted personally to be sure. The evening promenade swirled back and forth in front of him. A parade of peacocks, thought the Russian. It wasn’t criticism. The reverse, in fact. Solomatin knew he’d miss it. He’d miss the svelte, fur-coated women who always seemed to favour beige, and immaculate men whose shoes were always polished and who didn’t look effeminate carrying wrist bags. And being able to sit outside cafes like now, and have waiters appear content to serve him instead of enduring the belligerent truculence of the steam-filled caverns of Moscow. And the clothes. Solomatin did not have the bulky Russian heaviness: he’d been chosen for the posting because the slightness, black hair and black eyes fitted easily into the Latin surroundings. Reverting to the square-shouldered, trouser-flapping creations of Moscow would be one of the small regrets he’d have. But very small. The Russian capital was where the promotion was: and Solomatin knew his promotion was inevitable after what was going to happen here. He’d been extremely fortunate.
Solomatin monitored the approach and checked the safety signals of his ground men before waving to the Italian whom he had cultivated for the past six months. Emilio Fantani was no longer the male prostitute he had been when he first arrived in Rome, but he still swayed between the tables with hip-swivelling suggestiveness. Solomatin noticed the eyes of several interested men as well as hopeful women follow the movement. Although he admired them, the clothes were too gaudy for Solomatin, silk floral shirt, black trousers and chamois jacket so thin as to be almost transparent, slung casually across the Italian’s shoulders. Fantani had a jangle of gold bracelets on either wrist, in addition to the Cartier watch, and there was gold, too, circling his throat. He was a thin, wiry man, never appearing properly relaxed, with eyes that flickered constantly. Solomatin had never decided if he were seeking danger or prey.
When he reached the table, Fantani seemed out of breath, which Solomatin knew to be an affectation. ‘I’ve kept you. Forgive me,’ he said.
‘I was early.’ Solomatin always spoke carefully when addressing Fantani, not because of any problem with his vocabulary, which was excellent, but because of his accent. Fantani had been born in a peasant hut in Calabria, one of the poorest regions in Italy, but had lived off his wits in Rome since he was fourteen. He had a street-wise intelligence that was often disconcerting. Shortly after they met, Fantani had suddenly questioned Solomatin’s pronunciation and queried outright whether he was Italian. Solomatin had talked of his birth in Tarvisio, on the Austrian border and of being brought up bi-lingually. Fantani appeared to accept it but at the time it frightened the Russian.
They shook hands and Fantani said, ‘I was pleased to get your call.’
With every reason, thought Solomatin. It had been a careful softening-up period to convince Fantani he was being considered for graduation from cat burglar to organized crime. They had provided the man with four perfect robberies, with alarm systems and house plans and safe combinations that had taken the KGB squad months to assemble.
‘It’s big,’ said Solomatin. ‘I wanted to get everything right.’
A waiter came over and Fantani quickly ordered an Americano, impatient with the interruption.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Jewellery.’
‘Where?’
‘The British ambassador has a villa at Ostia. It’s in the safe there.’
Fantani’s face creased. ‘That’s not just a robbery,’ he said. ‘That’s political.’
More than you think, thought Solomatin. He said, ‘You’re not scared?’
‘The security will be strong.’
‘I’ve got all the details.’
‘It’ll be difficult to fence.’
‘It’ll be impossible,’ said Solomatin. ‘More than half is antique. It would be identified at once.’
Fantani stopped with the drink halfway to his lips. ‘What’s the point of stealing what we can’t get rid of?’
‘We’re going to sell it back.’
‘To the ambassador?’
Solomatin patiently shook his head. ‘To the insurers. It’s a common practice. The police don’t like it, but the insurers do. It’s cheaper to pay out a percentage than the full amount.’
‘We’ll do it together?’
‘I’ll tell you everything you have to do.’ Solomatin had been maintaining a note of the time and was ready when Vasily Leonov edged onto a table three places away. It was unnecessary but Leonov had insisted upon using the meeting to identify his victim. The assassin showed no recognition. Within minutes of being seated, his concentration was entirely upon Fantani. Solomatin was too highly trained to show any outward reaction, but he felt an inner clutch of coldness: it was like watching a snake manoeuvre itself to strike at some tethered, helpless animal.
‘How much information have you got?’ said Fantani.
‘Everything. Perimeter protection, alarm systems, safe location. The lot.’
‘It sounds good.’
‘It is.’
‘When do I see it?’
Leonov had said he only wanted a few moments. ‘Now,’ said Solomatin.
Fantani’s apartment overlooked the Piazza del Popolo, a garish, harsh place of over-bright lighting, steel-framed furniture, see-through glass tables and black and white decor – an amalgam of a dozen film sets. Curtains were opened and closed from a central, electrically controlled panel, which also operated a television and stereo installation positioned like neat birds’ nests in a lattice of tubular metal. It was the first time Solomatin had been there and Fantani was anxious to impress.
‘A drink…?’ He hesitated, gesturing towards a stone jar full of thickly rolled cigarettes. ‘… or something else?’
‘Whisky,’ said Solomatin. If he got the promotion he expected on his return to Moscow, he’d be able to buy Scotch at the concessionary stores: like the clothes, it was something he had come to enjoy.
Solomatin carried with him a slim document case. From it he took the information he had promised in the cafe, setting it out on one of the glass-topped tables.
‘This is the big one, Emilio.’
‘I’ve been waiting a long time.’
‘It’s got to work.’
‘It will.’ The assurance was too quick, too eager to please.
‘Let’s go through it.’
It took a long time, because Solomatin was aware his future was dependent upon it and was therefore determined there would not be any misunderstanding. He made the Italian study the perimeter protection, recite it back to him to guarantee it was memorized, and then study the plan of the villa and draw it himself, so that he would know the location of every room. Having established the design in Fantani’s mind, the Russian insisted he itemize the entry points and mark upon his drawing the burglar protection. The final test was to recite the combination of the safe. It was fifteen minutes before Fantani got the numbering and dial changes correct; he was sweating and most of the bombastic composure was gone. Solomatin gathered up his own copies and returned them to the document case; if anything went wrong – which he was sure it couldn’t – the only evidence would be in the Italian’s own handwriting.