'The police are offering this as a theory? We are to believe this ?'
Spoken with the killer chop of sarcasm.
'Yes, sir,' Carpenter again interjected, 'we believe it because there are three men on their backs in the morgue to convince us.
Two have died of gunshot wounds, the third of a dented skull.'
The Ambassador retreated, coughed, wiped his head with a handkerchief and waved his visitors to chairs. 'What's the motive?' he said simply.
Charlesworth took his cue. 'The NAP demand that by nine tomorrow morning, Central European Time, the Italian government shall release the captured terrorist Franca T a n t a r d i n i… '
The Ambassador, sitting far to the front of the intricately carved chair, reeled forward. 'Oh my God… Go on, Charlesworth. Don't spare the rod.'
'… the Italian government shall release Franca Tantardini or Geoffrey Harrison will be killed. In a few minutes the Minister of the Interior will get his first briefing. I imagine that within twenty you will be called to the Viminale.'
Rock still, his head in his tired, aged hands, the Ambassador contemplated. Neither Charlesworth nor Carpenter interrupted.
The buck had been passed. For a full minute the silence bur-geoned, causing Charlesworth to feel for the straightness of his tie knot, Carpenter to look at his unpolished shoes and the lace that was loose.
The Ambassador shook himself as if to dislodge the burden.
' It is a decision for the Italian government to make. Any interference, any pressure on our part, would be quite unwarranted.
Indeed, any suggestion of action would be quite uncalled for.'
'So you wash your hands of Harrison?' Carpenter was flushed as he spoke, temper surging.
' I don't think that's what the Ambassador m e a n t… ' Charlesworth cut in unhappily.
'Thank you, Charlesworth, but I can justify my own statements,' the Ambassador said. 'We don't wash our hands of the fate of Mr Harrison, as you put it, Mr Carpenter. We face the reality of local conditions.'
'When this was a criminal matter, when there was only money at issue, then we were prepared to deal..
'Your company was prepared to negotiate, Mr Carpenter. The British Foreign Office remained uninvolved.'
'What's so bloody different between a couple of million dollars and freedom for one woman?' Thanks to all that bloody brandy that Charlesworth had plied him with, he couldn't marshal his sentences, couldn't hit at the smug little sober bastard opposite him. The frustration welled in his mind.
'Don't shout at me, Mr Carpenter.' The Ambassador was cold, aloof on his pedestal. 'The situation is indeed different. Before, as you rightly say, only money was involved. Now we add principle, and with that the sovereign dignity of the Republic of Italy. It is inconceivable that the government here can bow to so crude a threat and release a public enemy of the stature of the Tantardini woman. It is equally inconceivable that the government of Great Britain should urge such a course.'
' I say again, you wash your hands of Geoffrey Harrison. You're prepared to see him sacrificed for the "dignity of Italy", whatever bloody nonsense that is… ' Carpenter looked across to Charles worth for an ally, but he had been anticipated and the gaze was averted.
'Well, thank you, gentlemen, thank you for your time. I'm sorry you were disturbed, that the day started badly, and early.'
Carpenter stood up, a little pencil of froth at the sides of his mouth. 'You're putting our man down the bloody bog, and you're pulling the bloody chain on him, and I think it's bloody marvellous.'
There was a passionless mask across the Ambassador's features and he stayed far back in his chair. 'We merely face reality, Mr Carpenter, and reality will dictate that if the losers in this matter are to be either Geoffrey Harrison or the Republic of Italy, then it will be Harrison who loses. If that is the conclusion, then the life of one man is of lesser importance than the lasting damage to the social and political fabric of a great and democratic country. That is how I see it, Mr Carpenter.'
'It's a load of b u l l s h i t… '
'Your rudeness neither offends me nor helps Harrison.®
' I think we should be on our way, Archie.' Charlesworth too was standing. 'I'll see you later in the office, sir.'
When they were out in the sunshine and walking towards the car, Charlesworth saw that there were tears streaming down Archie Carpenter's face.
For several minutes Harrison had been watching the jumping needle of the fuel dial that bounced against the left corner of the display arc bringing him the knowledge that the tank was drying, emptying. He wondered how the boy would react to the idea that the car would soon be static and useless, considered whether he should alert him to the impending halt of their progress, or whether he should simply drive on till the engine coughed and died, barren of petrol. It depended what he wanted from it, whether it was a fight, or whether it was the easy way and safety, however temporary. Tell him now that they were about to stop on the hard shoulder and perhaps the boy wouldn't panic, would work at his options. Allow it to happen and the boy might crumble under a crisis, and that was dangerous because of the ready presence of the P38.
Same old question, Geoffrey, same old situation. To confront or to bend, and no middle road.
Same old answer, Geoffrey. Don't shake it, don't rock it.
Don't kick the bucket of muck in his face because that's the short way to pain, and the gun's close and armed.
'We won't be going much further, Giancarlo.'
Harrison's softly spoken words boomed in the quiet of the car.
Beside him the boy straightened from his low-slung sitting posture. The gun barrel dug at Harrison's ribs as if demanding explanation.
'We're almost out of petrol.'
The boy's head in its curled and tangled hair darted across Harrison's chest to study the dial. Harrison eased back in his seat, gave him more room, and heard his breathing speed and rise.
'There's not much more in the old girl, Giancarlo. Perhaps a few more kilometres.'
The boy lifted his head, and the hand that did not hold the gun scraped at his chin as if this were a way to summon inspiration and clarity of decision.
' It's not my fault, Giancarlo.'
'Silence,' the boy snapped back.
Just the breathing to mingle with the steady purr of the little engine, and time too for Harrison to think and consider. Behind their different walls the man and the boy entertained the same thoughts. What would a stoppage mean to the security of the journey? What risk would it offer Giancarlo of identification and subsequent pursuit? What possibility of escape would it present to his prisoner? And it's not only the boy with decisions to make, Geoffrey, it's you as well. He couldn't be as vigilant, could he, if they were stopped on the roadside, pulled into a toll gate, going in search of a petrol station ? Opportunities were going to loom, opportunities for flight, for a struggle.
Then he'll shoot.
Sure?
Can't be sure but likely.
Worth a try, whether he'll shoot or not?
Perhaps, if the opportunity's there.
That's the crawling way out, that's the gutless way.
For Christ's sake, it's not a bloody virility contest. It's my bloody life, it's my bloody stomach with the P38 stuck into it. It's my neck with the axe hanging over it. It's not gesture time. I said perhaps, that should bloody be enough.
You won't do it, you won't take him on, you won't fight.
Perhaps, but only if it presents itself.
'We take the Monte Cassino turn-off.' Giancarlo was out of his dream, breaking Harrison's debate.
High above them to the right of the autostrada perched the triumphant monastery. It loomed on the mountain top, a widow's shrine for women of many far countries whose men had staggered and fallen distant years back under the rain of shrapnel and explosive, and bullet swathes. The car plunged past the signs for the turn-off.