I was on time. My heart was banging.
Dead at one o'clock Patrizio came for the cafeteria table in his wheezy World War II van. He arrived with the characteristic boredom of the vannie, smoking laconically and humping the steel and formica job on his shoulder without a word. Piero came to see I wasn't flogging a Regency piece.
'Get a receipt, Lovejoy,' he orderd.
'You,' I shot back, getting on with my job.
Patrizio gave Piero a don't-interrupt-me look and drove off leaving Piero looking foolish, to my delight. That was my last smile for a long, long time.
We closed at quarter to two, me strolling unbelievably casual into St Peter's Square exactly at two.
Valerio was a chip off Patrizio's block all right. He was a square thickset young bloke. I'd told his dad no drinks, no smokes. Valerio was obediently sitting picking his teeth and reading the Osservatore Romano on the end of the lines of chairs set out between the fountains.
'You want a seat?' He made to rise. Daft, really. There were four hundred empty places.
'No,' I said, mouth dry and voice no more than a croak. 'I have an urgent appointment.'
He eyed me curiously. I eyed him. It was the first time we'd met. Anna had suggested this ludicrous interchange because security forces everywhere had these directional microphones. He nodded imperceptibly. My words meant the rip was on.
'Then go well,' Valerio said.
'Ta.' I walked past him on legs suddenly made of uncontrollable rubber and headed for the loo to the left of St Peter's facade. The Vatican post office was doing a roaring trade. Old Anna was being bothersome among a crowd of amused Americans near the great basilica steps. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed her sudden querulous departure. Judging by the burst of laughter she had made some crack. Her job now was to find Carlo and hurtle him in to the loos after me.
The two usual women attendants were sitting at a little white table by the door. They ignored me. As long as I remembered to throw a hundred-lire coin into their plate as I left I'd remain an invisible passing tourist. Once in a cubicle I frantically started stripping off my clothes, hands shaking. I was sweating like a pig. My shirt and jacket were drenched, the sleeves clinging to me from damp. I cursed and wrestled in the confined space, a couple of times blundering against the door so noisily I forced myself to slow down. Hurry slowly. Good advice for anyone, as long as they're not frightened out of their skulls.
I dressed in my new sober gear. Make sure the handkerchief's showing from your top pocket, Lovejoy, Anna had said. It's a man's equivalent of white gloves in a woman, she'd said, trying to smile brightly, and I'd promised. Shoes cleaned, and in a plastic bag so as not to soil the clothes. Money—what there was—shifted into the new navy suit. Shirt. Sober tie, monogrammed imaginatively but with careful ambiguity. Cuff-links. Surprisingly, as I flopped on the lavatory pan to lace my shoes, a note on a stolen card. It read, 'Good luck, darling cretino,' and was signed with three cross-kisses. The card was for a silver wedding. I had to smile, even the shaky state I was in. Obviously she'd had difficulty finding a card with an appropriate good-luck-nicking-the-Pontiff's-antique motto.
I stood with the customary stiffness of a man in a strange new suit, and checked over the discards. Items into the briefcase, one by one. A moment's stillness. A quick listen.
Deep breaths for control. Hundred-lire coin in my right jacket pocket for the women attendants, a tug on the handle to flush the loo—I'd tried to squeeze out a drop but every sphincter I possessed was on the gripe—and out, walking with purpose.
One old man leaving, tapping his stick. Two German youths combing hair and talking loudly, about to depart. And Carlo, nodding and winking and chewing gum and rolling a cowboy's cigarette one-handed, doing it all wrong. Sweating worse than ever, I ignored him and went to wash my hands.
From the handbasins the women attendants were talking just out of sight. I ran the water, peering through the mirror towards the entrance. The German lads left, still talking. The old geezer was gone. All the cubicle doors were open. Nobody.
I pulled a third-bottle out of my pocket and swiftly unscrewed the cap. 'Carlo.'
'Yeah, boss?' He slid over, gum-chewing and shoulder-hunching. His hand was thrust deep into his jacket pocket. He now sported a white trilby pulled down over one eye just to prove to the world's armies of Swiss Guards that he really was a genuine hundred-per-cent gangster on the prod. With virtually uncontrollable hands I poured him a capful of the dark rum. No good doing things by halves. His eyes widened delightedly. No acting this time, I noticed wryly.
I whispered, 'Cheers, Carlo,' and tilted the bottle, my tongue in its neck to stop any leaking into my mouth.
'But you said—'
'Shhh! Old custom,' I told him, gasping to good effect as if stunned by the booze.
'To the death, Captain!' He swigged it back, the poor sod. His eyes bled tears and he gasped, 'A superb shot o' old red-eye!'
'Er, yes.' I screwed the cap on and slipped the bottle into the case. Still nobody. 'You have fifteen minutes, Carlo.'
'Sure, boss. Ready? Willco!'
The poor goon slunk out, hunching and glancing, his collar up. The two women rolled eyes to each other showing exasperation at the young. Carlo looked a right carnival, but he no longer mattered much—as long as he made the Museum cafeteria at speed.
Coin casually in the dish, and I was out into the warmth of St Peter's great square, a picture of the professional gentleman scanning the sights of Rome. There is no real short cut to the Vatican Museum doorway, so it meant making a brisk diagonal under the Colonnade, down the Angelica, round the Risorgimento and along. I was panicking in case there was a queue.
Seven minutes to reach the slope where I could see three coaches reversing into the slip by the Museum doorway. I lost all decorum as I hurried up the street to reach the entrance before the scores of Dutchmen poured out, and only slowing down once I was certain I would be ahead of them.
An elderly lady sold me some violets from the low wall near the entrance. I paid, leaving my briefcase to be swiftly covered by her shawl. Anna squeezed my hand as she gave me the change. While buying my ticket I realized she had short-changed me by five hundred lire, but that was only her joke. Anyway, I was almost smiling as I made my way up that spectacular staircase. Three violets were our signal that Carlo had made it ahead of me by three minutes. A rose would have been the signal to abort, that Carlo had failed to show.
Anna had said you couldn't reach the cafeteria from the Museum entrance in less than four minutes. I had argued and argued but she'd remained adamant, and now I was glad she'd been so stubborn. The small corridors between the decorated chapels were crammed with schoolchildren. Teachers herded classes to and fro. I blundered among them in a lather, trying to keep up a steady count in my mind so I could keep on schedule but finding to my horror I was starting over and over again at one, two, three…
Worse, the bloody cafeteria was bulging, though its self-service line was moving forward fairly quickly. I looked anxiously for Carlo. He was near the front, almost at the till by now and sandwiched between two strapping blondes. Apart from Carlo, I was the only person there not in jeans and tee shirt. If I'd known I wouldn't have worried about looking exactly right. My spirits hardly rose, but at least they crept cautiously out of hiding an inch or two.
We shuffled forward. I collared a couple of wrapped sandwiches and moved with the rest, sliding my tray along the chromed rails. Carlo carried his tray to a newly-cleared table by the picture windows which overlooked the garden terrace. He sat and immediately started wolfing his cream cakes.