Albatross (38 page)

Everyone hurried to see the signs of the disaster that had happened on the Grand Canal. Bits of blackened debris still floated, and the smoke and fumes hadn't cleared. Someone, God knows who, had dropped a wreath of red and white flowers onto the water, where Henry Franklyn, United States Secretary of Defence, had been blown to pieces just before one o'clock that day.

‘Well,' Humphrey Grant remarked, ‘you were complaining about things being too quiet. We'll have enough excitement now.'

Tim Johnson tried not to look pleased. Ever since the news came in on the telex, the adrenaline had been pumping through him. He had hunted with his uncle in Galway as a boy; the love of excitement and challenge had been born in him as he flew over jagged grey walls and galloped across the wild terrain. He still hunted at odd weekends, but it was not the same. Now he pursued human quarry.

Davina's telex had followed within an hour. Johnson was to fly to Venice immediately; Humphrey was to contact the Agenzia di Sicurezza and ask for full cooperation with their British colleagues. An explosives expert was to follow Johnson as quickly as possible.

‘I think Davina's pushing this too far,' Humphrey grumbled. ‘The Agenzia people are notoriously touchy about outsiders.'

‘They're notoriously inefficient too,' Johnson retorted. He detested the old boys' network attitude. Davina Graham didn't care whose toes she stepped on and he admired her for it. ‘I think it's a good idea.'

Humphrey didn't look up from his desk. ‘When you've worked with the Italians as long as I have,' he said, ‘you'll find they're as good in their way as anybody. What time's your plane?'

‘Six-thirty,' Johnson said. Patronizing old prune, he said to himself, looking at the balding top of Grant's head. Never looks you in the eye when he's giving out.

Grant's head came up and he stared at him as if he'd spoken out loud. ‘Then why don't you catch it?'

Johnson didn't bang the door. He didn't care about Humphrey. Humphrey had nowhere to go but the green fields of retirement.

His wife was waiting at Heathrow to see him off. She was very understanding about his job. They'd been married for seven years and had twin boys. Johnson loved his family. As they kissed he said, ‘Darling, I don't know when I'll be back. I'll bring the boys something.'

Four hours later he was met by a senior officer of the Italian anti-terrorist squad and driven by private launch to the Gritti Palace Hotel.

‘I'm sorry about this,' Davina said. ‘I'm afraid our holiday's gone up in smoke.'

Walden held her hand. ‘Of course it has.' He looked shaken, sallow with shock under the suntan. ‘I can't stop thinking about it,' he said. ‘We could have been on that launch.'

‘Not a chance,' Davina answered quietly. ‘Everyone on board was part of Franklyn's security guard. Nobody got a place on any boat when he was in it. They saw to that.'

He looked up at her suddenly. ‘You knew he was staying here?'

‘Yes, I knew. I recognized him when he walked into the restaurant last week. He had his daughter with him. The wife died last year.'

‘Why didn't you say anything?' He sounded subdued.

Davina was surprised at how much the tragedy had shaken him. She said very gently, ‘Darling, I didn't say anything because I couldn't. What was the point? Franklyn was travelling incognito, showing the poor girl round Europe. The whole thing was being kept as quiet as possible to give them a chance to enjoy themselves. He's not a well-known face; he never went on TV like a lot of them. They were very tightly screened, and it might well have worked.'

‘But it didn't,' Walden countered. ‘Somebody knew who he was all right and the so-called bloody screen didn't stop them being blown up in broad daylight on the Grand Canal! Why can't you go home and let this Tim Johnson take over out here? What good can
you
do?'

‘I don't know,' she admitted. ‘But I was on the scene and Johnson wasn't. You're not worrying about me, are you? Tony, for God's sake, don't be silly. I'm not in any danger.'

He said angrily, ‘If they knew about Franklyn, what's to stop them having a go at you?'

‘Nothing,' she said. ‘Except it doesn't work like that. The bosses don't attack each other. That's the unwritten law. I don't worry about Borisov having a crack at me; Brunson at CIA doesn't either; Borisov doesn't worry about us. Nobody has ever broken that rule. It's understood.'

‘In other words, Franklyn was murdered by the KGB?' He had turned away from her, looking out of the window. It was dark, but the torches of the river police were playing over the water outside. The area where the boat had blown up was roped off up to a hundred yards on either side. Water traffic passing by was limited to three knots. No flights had been allowed out of Marco Polo airport; the railway link with the mainland was closed. ‘The radio said it was a terrorist organization.'

‘That's a pretty good description of the KGB,' Davina answered. She came up to him. ‘Tony, you mustn't let this get on top of you. You've always known what I did. You know as well as I do, there are risks involved. But not for me. That's the irony of the damned job. We're the generals – we don't get into the firing line. Now please, come on. Let's go down and have a drink and wait for Johnson.'

‘It'll be crawling with police,' Walden muttered. ‘The place is full of them. I'd like to move.'

‘All right, we will, as soon as I've seen Tim.'

He put his arms round her and held her for a moment. ‘I love you so much,' he said. ‘That's the trouble.'

‘The trouble,' Davina said, ‘would be if you stopped. One day, I'll tell you just how pointless my life would be without you. Now, let's go down, shall we?'

The bar was full. The trade in drinks had been brisk ever since the police said the hotel could function normally. Statements had been taken from the guests and staff. Davina and Walden were excused after Davina identified herself. They would confer with the head of Security. He had set up his headquarters in the Agenziadi Polizia in the Via Leonardo da Vinci. There was only one topic of conversation among the American, British and German tourists; the Italians kept themselves in a group, embarrassed and shamed by what had happened. Davina and Walden were drawn in in spite of their efforts to tuck themselves into a corner.

‘How dreadful,' a pretty young English girl kept saying, ‘How ghastly.…'

‘It's the Red Brigade,' her husband insisted. ‘Just like they killed that other poor devil – the politician – what's his name?'

‘Aldo Moro,' Davina suggested.

‘That's right. Bloody savages, that's what those people are. The Germans had the right idea. They knew how to deal with the Baader, whatever it was, group.'

‘Baader–Meinhof,' Davina said again.

‘That's right,' he repeated. ‘They hanged themselves in prison, or so the Germans said.'

‘We were out when it happened,' the pretty girl was saying to Walden, leaning close towards him as if they were all conspirators. ‘I don't think I want to stay here now. I keep thinking about it – did you see all those awful bits floating around on the canal?'

‘There's Tim,' Davina interrupted. She smiled briefly at the couple. ‘Excuse us. Good night.'

It surprised her how well Johnson and Tony Walden got on. They talked about the flight, Johnson made a joke at the expense of the local carabinieri which made Walden laugh, and after that he seemed to relax. They went upstairs to the suite where Johnson opened the window and leaned out. The lights were playing over the black water; a gondola with a load of tourists came close enough for the serenade ‘O Sole Mio' to float like a lament over the hum of passing launches.

‘I don't know what they expect to find by now,' Johnson remarked. ‘I gather there wasn't much left to bury. Analysis will tell us what sort of explosive they used.'

‘Does it matter?' Walden queried.

‘It could be a pointer,' Johnson explained. ‘The more sophisticated the device, the easier to eliminate groups that can't get hold of it.'

‘But it has to be the Russians,' Walden said.

Johnson glanced at Davina.

She answered the question he hadn't asked. ‘It's all right,' she said. ‘You can talk in front of Tony. This is only routine stuff. Later,' she reached out and touched his hand, ‘we'll have to go into a huddle. When our Italian friend arrives.'

The house on the Street of the Assassins had a small television set. The man whose name was Italy ate his meal of
spaghetti alle vongole
sitting in front of the screen. He listened to the commentators, saw replays of the scene on the Grand Canal, watched the night cameras relaying the continued activity in the area. There was a young woman in the house; she had opened the door and given him a kiss as soon as he was inside. ‘Congratulations,' was all she said.

It was a small, very dark house, low-ceilinged, with narrow windows. It belonged to a Venetian antique dealer who relished the historical significance of his address and enjoyed himself filling the sinister little building with early furniture and some rare Renaissance bronzes whose owners didn't know what they were selling. His shop was closed for renovations; part of the lower floor showed subsidence caused by the waters of the canal. He had moved his stock upstairs, called in the builders and gone off on a buying expedition with his wife to Rome. His daughter had stayed behind.

The girl came and stood behind his chair, watching the screen in silence. Messages of outrage were coming in from world leaders. The Pope's image appeared, and the girl laughed. ‘You've made quite a stir, Italy.'

The man looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Shut up,' he said.

The report returned to the Grand Canal; there was nothing new to tell the audience. The taxi boat had not been found. He leaned forward and switched the television off. He felt the girl's excitement coming at him like electric waves. Some of the women were like that. Death gave them an orgasm. As soon as someone was killed they wanted to fuck. He didn't feel like it. ‘I'm going to bed,' he said. ‘And not with you. So cool off.'

She shrugged. She was slim, dark-eyed, with the olive skin of the true Venetian. Somewhere, centuries back, there had been a Moor in the bed of a Valdorini. ‘Suit yourself,' she said. A pity. She liked men with his colouring. But he might feel different tomorrow. Then so might she.

She took the tray away and washed the dishes by hand. She had been brought up to be economical. They didn't use the machine unless it was full. By 11.30 the lights were out and the house was a blind face in the crumbling wall of ancient houses. The water ran close to the edge of the narrow street outside, and a sinister humped bridge, too narrow to cross except in single file, spanned the sluggish flow. And in that flow, carried by the unseen tides that crept in from the sea, floated the remains of the boat and the people who had died that morning.

Alfredo Modena was in his sixties. He was a quiet, rather dour man who could have been an academic. He spoke excellent English, also German and French. He joined Davina and Johnson at just before midnight. Walden had excused himself after dinner.

‘I'm sorry to be so late,' Modena said. ‘My headquarters is like a madhouse. There are times when I'd like to shoot every media man on sight!'

‘I don't envy you,' Davina said. ‘The last thing you need in a situation like this is outsiders getting in the way.' Be tactful, Humphrey had advised on the telephone. You have a unique opportunity to get in on the investigation, but remember how touchy the Italians are.… She decided to be tactful, as he'd said. ‘Signor Modena, I hope you don't put me in that category. As I happened to be practically on the spot and staying in the same hotel, I felt you'd understand my request for information.' He wasn't going to respond. She saw the resentment in his eyes as he looked at her.

‘The United States is principally involved,' he said. ‘I am expecting a planeload of their people. I have to give them priority as far as any information is concerned. All I can make available to you, Signorina Graham, are the preliminary reports.' He handed a thin file to Davina. ‘There's nothing much there. We're waiting for the forensic reports and laboratory tests. Then we'll have a clearer picture of what happened. But it's definitely murder. The petrol tank exploded, but only after a primary explosion of great force set it off.'

‘That would be pretty obvious to anyone who saw the boat go up,' Davina said. ‘Nobody suggested it was an accident at our end.'

‘But accidents occur.' Modena's tone was sharp. ‘And not only in Italy.'

Prunehead was right, Johnson said to himself. They certainly don't like outside interference.

Davina said, ‘What most concerns us, Signor Modena, is whether this is an Italian organization or an international one. What is your view?'

‘Until I have studied all the reports and collated all my facts, Signorina, I don't have a view.' He detested abrasive, abrupt women who squared up to men as equals. But then he was old fashioned. The English had made a woman head of their government. It wouldn't happen in Italy.

‘But you must have a private opinion.' Tim Johnson decided to take it up. ‘Is it the Red Brigades?'

Modena shrugged. ‘It could be. It could be the Dutch Red Hand, or what's left of the Baader–Meinhof coming back into the picture. Or the PLO. After all, Franklyn was a Jew.'

‘But not a Zionist,' Davina said. She glanced quickly at Johnson. We're wasting our time, the signal said. Let's cut it short.…

She stood up. ‘Thank you for coming to see us. Mr Johnson will be here for the next few days and is anxious to consult with you. I'll be on my way to London tomorrow. As I said, I don't envy you. Especially when the CIA arrives in force.'