Chapter 9

Chapter 9 - Shapes below the Surface

Passing the site where they were building the new car park, Salvatore had been tempted by the shouts of voices he recognised. Sure enough, through the gap where one of the metal sheets had been pulled aside, he saw Scheletro and Vittorino kicking a ball about. They were trying to hit it off the digger that sat idle in the middle of the flattened area.
'Guaglioni', he called, cocking his chin up as he had seen the men do. They shook hands in the gangster style.
'Can't play. I'm on a job.'
'Oh yeah?'
'We're looking for this guy.' He unfurled the printout. 'You seen him?'
'It's a black.'
'You're a genius Rino.'
Scheletro, who was a little older and nicknamed for his deceptively spindly frame, took the sheet from Salvatore's hand.
'Hey!'
'Do you want me to look or not?'
'You don't have to take it.'
'We saw him ten minutes ago.'
'Where?'
'Up there.' Salvatore followed the direction of Scheletro's finger, to one of the balconies on the palazzo overlooking the building site.
'What was he doing?'
'Nothing. He came out then went back in.'
'Which one?'
'Fourth floor, centre.'
'Well done Scheletro.'
'What do you mean well done. I was just here, that's all.'
'Mimmo'll be pleased.'
'You're working for Mimmo.'
'Yes.'
'There! there!'
Suddenly Rino was jumping up and down, jabbing with his finger at the street lined with pine trees that passed above the other end of the car park. A dark figure was walking down it, in the shadow of the trees.
'That's him. The black.'
Salvatore turned and sprinted across the bare earth. The machines had made a four metre high cliff where they'd gouged out the soil to make the car park. He had to get up there, to follow the African, but there was nothing to hold onto, no tree roots, no ivy, just sand that crumbled in his fingers. He made futile grabs trying to gain a purchase, and ended up almost weeping with frustration. After a minute he thought to use his mobile to call Mimmo, who answered after only two rings.
'What is it?'
'I just saw him. Via dei Pini, he's alone.'
'Right. Stay close, we're coming.'
'But -' it was too late. Mimmo had ended the call.
What we gonna do then Ransome ol' boy, got six hours to kill so how 'bout a little sightseeing, shopping, or perhaps a visit to an internet cafe - see if Mamma's e-mailed again, check the football scores, do a little social networking. Pick up a cappucino or two, smoke a cigar called hamlet and enjoy sitting on the dock at the bay, try to catch some lady's attention. Sweet mother you near clean forgot - none o' that is yours. You have what Bible boys call the mark o' Cain: you're condemned to wander like a hunted man with malodorous clothes. Fact: what you need most of is a shower, good strong hot one like at le club sportif, all of the boys standing there naked as babies scrubbin' with soap.
The Audi had been tailing him for a full minute before it gave up on his powers of observation and pulled alongside. He began to run, until he heard the command to stop in the native language he hadn't heard since he'd left London.
*
For the past ten years, Alberto Scalina had been steadily advancing through the ranks of Servizi per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Militare, known to all as SISMI, until he was in a position of being more or less able to decide his own daily agenda. This meant, as he enjoyed telling his friends, that he had achieved his main ambition in life. Today he walked from his base near the port, through Piazza del Popolo, towards Via Toledo. The new Pope was due in the city the next day and small groups of pilgrims were already clogging the streets. Scalina felt a surge of irritation at a pale, grossly overweight woman in tight shorts wheeling a boy in a chair who was squealing and jabbing in the air. This was no place for foreigners, least of all such flawed specimens of humanity. Watching her struggle with the chair up a foot high kerb, he was taken aback when she began addressing him, a complete stranger, in English, speaking as though the situation was his fault personally, as if any rule except survival of the fittest could apply in Napoli. Shaking his head, he laughed as he walked on by.
The Englishman, Commons, had seemed okay, at least at the one conference in London where they had previously seen each other. Well-presented, and efficient, not like the fool Sozbury who was always trying to disguise the fact that he knew nothing. Commons was already there when he walked into the cafe, and Scalina noted with approval that he had chosen a table in a discreet corner at the back. They shook hands and without being asked, Commons offered him a light for the cigarette he was already withdrawing from his suit jacket pocket. Commons himself did not smoke, and Scalina imagined correctly that this was because he treated his body like a Formula One car on the inside as well as out. Scalina was well-muscled enough, but developing a slight paunch, and his engine was suspect at best.
'Allora Nick, how are you this afternoon?'
'Pretty good, Alberto. Thank you for getting in touch so quickly. It's as if you know our Embassy always fucks up.'
'Yes. I prefer to communicate with you personally.'
They had fallen easily into the habit of using first names, something which had never happened with the pompous Sozbury.
'So, would you like to tell me why your Majesty finally sent you here in person? Is it the reason I think?'
'And what would that be Alberto?'
Neither of them knew it, but they were both enjoying exactly the same pleasure in these exchanges: the pleasure of actors sure that the words they chose to deploy were merely tips for vast bodies of meaning they hid beneath the surface. The skill lay in discerning the larger shape concealed beneath the words of the other, without revealing too much of one's own. And yet, Nick realised, with a shock of guilty thrill, their secret services were supposed to have the same interests. Instead of playing games over espresso, shouldn't they be leaning over a table with all their cards lain down, working out the best way to accomplish the mission? But London had told him not to expect that for a second, and, in any case, now it was the Italian who was making the first move. He picked up the card that Alberto had scrawled on and pushed across the tabletop towards him. On it was written the confirmation that they both held the same intelligence.
MA Blue Ocean
He took out his Parker and wrote a time underneath the name, before pushing the card back across, catching the waiter looking at them as he did so. Commons thought he looked too old for a waiter, though he understood that Italians took the job more seriously than people back home, where it was only ever temporary unless you were an immigrant. Alberto winked and nodded.
'How many men?' he asked.
Never mind nosy waiters, this was going to be a lot easier than Nick had thought.