Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Last Testament

The lesson seemed to drag on interminably, and when she came out her tired senses barely registered the gleaming, polished jag parked at the top of the street. As she moved out to pass on her moped, a hand emerged from the driver side window and flagged her down. Her heart was beating faster than it should have until she saw who the hand belonged to.
'Johhny Salisbury.'
'Mina .'
Even this brief exchange had an Ealing Studios feel to it, as everything involving Johnny did. She had only met him a few times, first at a British Council function she'd gone to in the search for contacts, then privately, over coffee, when he'd told her about his novel.
'You got a book deal yet, Johnny?'
'They're queuing up. Just working out the best option'
She took it for granted that this was fatuous bluster - the idea of Johnny ever applying himself hard enough to finish a book was as outlandish as they came. What he did possess was the art of describing a theory: in the form of a whole plot mapped out for one of those historical thrillers with a code hidden in a renaissance painting. She wouldn't put it past him to have pocketed a publisher's advance without having written a single paragraph.
'What's going on Johnny? How did you find me here?' She hoped her nervousness came across as surprise.
'Well you didn't answer your mobile so I phoned your house number. They said you'd be here, not that I could bloody understand at first.'
'Who answered?’
'It was a creature that produced what I call a low guttural soundscape.'
'That'll be Luca, his dialect's quite thick.'
She was thinking fast. This must be about Ransome. Johnny Salisbury was MI6's man in Naples, a fact which caused much hilarity among the ex-pat community. 'Double gin seven', they called him.
‘Why do you want-’
'Don't ask me,' he shrugged, an exaggerated gesture he'd unconsciously copied from the locals. 'Our London chappy wants to speak to you. I'm just the messenger. I'll bring you in in style if you want,' he indicated the tan leather passenger seat, currently covered by an opened copy of The Times.
She gave a short laugh, feigning nonchalance. Maybe they'd already got Ransome. Now she'd have to explain her way out of something she didn't even understand. What had she been thinking, leaving him in her room?
'I need to go back home first and drop this off. Will you drive behind and wait for me outside the flat?'
'Yes, Ma'am.'
He mock-saluted as she revved the engine up the steep cobbles. It was a left down Via Universita then a right a hundred metres later. Even if her motor had packed more than a hundred and fifty cc's she couldn't have lost him in that time.

'Alright, what have you done?'
Jeepazcreepaz the lady she don't look happy an' all I done is take a few gentle tokes from a pouch which was, afta all, open on the table. I'm sorry but -
'Listen, there's a British agent outside who wants to bring me in. It's got to be about you.'
Shit I don' know! Is she making all this up? Is she playing games with Ransome? But then what about the disk?
'Tone down the sirens jus' a second Mina, and listen. I found something. You see first off I was being a plain fool, fast fo'wardin' my way an inch at-a-time thru one crappy romcom afta anotha. Did three o' em that way then I realised, if they's something's on one of the disks, chances is it ain't feature length. They've all got 'Hollywood covers but are all the disks doin' what they say on the cover, maybe not? So - an 'here be the genius part - I put 'em in jus' to check the runnin' time what comes up in pretty green digits here. One hour an' a half is about the average, so when I got once that said four minutes I knew -.'
'Quick, show me now. We don't have much time.'
Mina sat beside him on her bed to watch the screen: A man on the other side of a desk, looking straight into the camera, his hands steepled under his chin. The face looked vaguely familiar, yellowed and set with such deep wrinkles they might have been ironed in.
'Welcome to my last message.' He spoke in heavily accented English, a wolf-smile showing crooked teeth. He lit a cigarette and started talking about the ethics of revolution and guerrilla war, and she remembered who he was and where she’d seen him before: an article in last month's Repubblica. Carlo Soro, former eminent sociology professor, in prison for twenty years for taking part in Brigate Rosse bombings in the seventies, released only a few years ago, controversially now lecturing at the Federico II University in Napoli. His voice held the didactic rhythm of a lifelong ideologue.
'... state violence is always legitimate. Resistance is terrorism. These are the lessons of our age.'
Soro sighed and sucked his pen. Mina decided he bore a strong resemblance to the late chanteur Serge Gainsbourg, and probably seduced his students too. He lifted a sheet of paper from the desk.
'Finally I'd like to read a little poem.' He cleared his throat.
'In War's refuge
Under the nose of the Tarzan
Where a tyrant sang
As the houses burned
You'll find me there...
'What's he on about?'
'Wait.'
Soro was reaching into a drawer now, and before his hand emerged Mina guessed what was going to happen.
'No!'
Ransome nodded. 'Looks like it'. Soro, with the barrel pressed to his forehead, leant forward and stopped the camera. The screen went black.
'What the -'
The mobile started juddering like an insect trying to right itself on the desk. Salisbury.
'Give me one more minute, Johnny.'
'Our man from London just on again, dear. Apparently I'm not to let you out of my sight.'
'Woman's trouble. Down in a sec.'
'You can't stay here.'
'Don worry I ain't planning on. You got the MI6 boys on me now, they'll use a cat like Ransome for target practice.'
'This is all because of you.'
'Maybe so. But I'd say we got ourselves a mystery. You recognised that geezer didn't you? What was he talkin' about?'
'Search me. He was a university professor, ex-terrorist.'
'Not a poet?'
'Good point. Play that again, the bit about Tarzan.'
This time she writes down while I manipulate de controls. Outside a horn is sounding. Guess that'll be James Bond. She instructs me follow her down and wait at the bottom 'til the car drives away, saying we'll meet again later, entrance to the park, nine o clock. The park where I tried to... place of bad memories. She tells me keep the disk safe. As we descend the stairs I ask her how she's going to get away from MI6 clutches, and she says she can talk her way out of it, she trusts me more than them. Okay I say, nine o' clock it is, I'll be careful, you gotta do the same. Nice jag she drives away in, man at the wheel has a face like steamed vegetable puddin'. Wonder if she'd choose me over him? Not if I don't get a change of clothes.