Charlie saw the service station ahead, indicated and turned smoothly into the forecourt. He was thirty minutes early, so he topped up the petrol and moved the car away from the pumps into the parking area. It was a busy station, cars and lorries and people swirling around. Well chosen, thought Charlie: greater professionalism than he would have expected, in fact.
He found the telephone in the vending area and went to it, the card Walsingham had given him ready in his hand. The security man came curtly on the line, the eagerness obvious in his voice.
‘Something up?’
‘There might be,’ said Charlie. ‘I just wanted to know where I could contact you later.’
‘I’m leaving the embassy now.’
‘Where to?’
‘Home. You’ve got the number. We’re going to be there all night.’
‘Stay there,’ said Charlie.
‘Where are you?’
‘Miles up some bloody autostrada,’ said Charlie. ‘They’re making sure I haven’t got the police with me.’
‘Shall I tell the ambassador?’
‘Not yet,’ said Charlie. ‘If there’s no contact here, it’ll be a waste of time.’ There was always the possibility that Moro would contact the embassy once he knew he’d been tricked at the bank.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just wait.’
‘Sure I can’t help any more than that?’
‘Not yet.’
‘It’s not much.’
‘It will be, when the time comes.’
Charlie replaced the receiver and lingered in the sales area, always keeping the clock in sight. Christ, time was going slowly. He checked his watch to ensure the station clock hadn’t stopped and then pushed his hands into his pockets, annoyed at his nervousness. Right to be tense, before a thing like this. But not nervous: nervous people made mistakes. The stone-in-the-shoe feeling came again. He couldn’t have missed anything; there was nothing to miss. It was a straightforward robbery with a straightforward settlement.
He went to the kiosk early, once more to keep the line clear, lifting the telephone at the first ring.
‘You’re doing very well,’ said the voice.
Wait, you bastard; just wait, thought Charlie. ‘Are we going to do it here?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Where?’
‘Back in Rome.’
‘Fuck me!’
There was a moment’s silence. Then the instructions continued uninterrupted. ‘Come back into Rome. Find your way to the Via Salaria. From 19 to 45 there’s an apartment complex. You need 35. Use the centre doorway. It’s facing you on the third floor, at the top of the stairs.’
It was a bloody awful set-up but he didn’t have a choice, Charlie realized. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘What time?’
‘It’ll take you an hour to get back to Rome. We’ll allow fifteen minutes for unforeseen delay. Be there at eight fifteen.’
‘All right.’
‘Arrive alone,’ said the voice. ‘If you don’t, there’ll be no one in the apartment when you get there.’
‘I understand,’ said Charlie. When Moro staged the identity parade he’d pretend to walk by at first, so the smart little bugger would think he’d got away with it.
‘Don’t be late.’ The line went dead.
Charlie dialled again. At the first attempt Charlie got a woman who identified herself as Walsingham’s wife and said he had not yet returned from the embassy. Charlie wandered impatiently around the service area, letting five minutes pass on the slow-moving clock. The security man answered the second time.
‘I’ve got a meeting place,’ announced Charlie.
‘Genuine?’
‘How do I know?’
‘Do you want me to come?’
Charlie calculated thirty minutes for the transfer. ‘Make it eight forty-five,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘35 Via Salaria: centre door. I’ll be waiting.’
‘What about the ambassador?’
Charlie hesitated. Get the jewellery back to Billington first and then advise Moro. ‘Tell him,’ he said.
‘What about the police?’
‘I’ll do that, when it’s over; it could all still be a hoax.’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘I’d be wasting everybody’s bloody time, if I did.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie.
In his apartment overlooking the Tiber, Walsingham put down the telephone and his wife said, ‘Did you get it?’
‘Of course I got it,’ said Walsingham.
‘You going to tell the ambassador?’
‘Yes.’
‘Watch your back,’ she said. ‘Just don’t forget to watch your back. They’re bastards, all of them. Rotten capitalist bastards.’
The inquiries had been made overnight and, because of the time difference with Australia, the reply from Canberra arrived almost at the same time as confirmation of Walsingham’s salary from London. The information had no outside relevance and Harkness telephoned direct to the Eden, relaying the details to Jackson.
‘After stoppages, Walsingham’s salary is seven hundred and eighty pounds a month,’ said Jackson to Naire-Hamilton and the director.
‘The apartment rental is five hundred and sixty-five,’ reminded Wilson.
‘Which only leaves two hundred and fifty.’ Jackson checked the London information. ‘There’s a housing allowance of a hundred pounds,’ he added.
‘Still an expensive choice,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘What about Australia?’
‘Stefan Ericson is still a political activist,’ read out Jackson. ‘He remembers Jill Walsingham, or rather Littleton, as she was then.’
‘What about her?’
‘He says she was quite politically aware.’
‘Why did she quit after only three months?’
‘Nothing to do with her politics, according to Ericson: it was over some row they had, because he became involved with another woman. Jill didn’t want to continue their relationship.’
The telephone sounded again and Jackson answered it. ‘The ambassador,’ he said to Wilson.
The director took the phone.
‘Is Walsingham suspect?’ asked Billington at once.
‘Why?’
‘I think I’ve been rather indiscreet.’ There was an obvious reluctance in Billington’s admission.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve allowed myself to be persuaded that the jewellery stolen from Ostia could be recovered by some sort of ransom. I appointed Walsingham to act as a liaison between me and the insurance assessor.’
‘So?’
‘Walsingham has just telephoned. He’s off to see the man Muffin this evening.’
For several moments Wilson remained silent, the telephone held slightly away from his head. ‘What!’ he demanded. The others in the room were aware of the sudden rigidity of his body.
‘I said Walsingham was going to…’
‘… No! ’ shouted the director. ‘The name. What was the name you used?’
‘Muffin,’ said the ambassador. ‘Charles Muffin. He is an insurance assessor from London.’
‘I thought there were going to be others here for protection,’ said Fantani. The nervousness had grown since the conversation with Charlie Muffin on the autostrada. He was moving restlessly around the room, eyes darting about him.
‘For the handover,’ said Solomatin. ‘Any minute now.’
‘It’ll be all right, won’t it?’ said Fantani. ‘I mean I gave the instructions properly?’
‘Fine,’ assured Solomatin. ‘You were just fine.’
When he heard a soft knock at the door, the Italian smiled and said, ‘Your people?’
‘Yes,’ said Solomatin. He opened it and Vasily Leonov came quickly in off the corridor.
‘Sorry, I can’t shake hands,’ said Fantani, indicating his tightly strapped arm.
Leonov, who couldn’t speak Italian and didn’t understand the remark, raised his hand anyway and Fantani had the briefest glimpse of the Tokarev before it fired. He was killed instantly, his body lifted back over the chair arm and then folding sideways, so that he ended in an oddly crouched position, as if he were praying.