Old Enemies (45 page)

‘How?’

He sighed. ‘Start with a pint of Guinness, I think. There may be several more to follow.’

They buried Sean in the cemetery of the church in Dundalk where he was christened. It was a few days after Christmas. A small ceremony, a family affair, very private. J.J. had written Harry a long and deeply personal letter in his own hand, spelling out his gratitude and inviting him to the funeral. In similar vein, Harry replied, talking in detail of all the things Sean had done in Trieste, of the admiration he would always hold for him, but in the circumstances declining to attend. He didn’t need to spell out what those circumstances were.

He travelled on his own to Dundalk a couple of days later. It was the same day that the news came through from Zimbabwe. There had been a coup on Christmas Day; the interim President, Moses Chombo, had been ousted and had not been seen since. The new government was headed by a security official of whom the media knew almost nothing. His name was Takere.

It was snowing when Harry reached the graveyard, much like Sean had told him it had been on that Bloody Sunday, when his world had changed. He found the grave without difficulty with its freshly turned soil and flowers. He knelt beside it, ignoring the dampness creeping around his knees, and remained like that for some time. Then, slowly, carefully, he dug a hole in the soft earth with his fingers directly above the point where he thought Sean’s heart would be. From his pocket he pulled his General Service Medal with its purple and green ribbon, his name etched on the rim and with its clasp that marked his military service in the British army in Northern Ireland. ‘Time to bury many things, old friend,’ he whispered as he placed it in the hole and smoothed the earth over.

Newsday
began publishing extracts from the Mandela diaries early in the New Year. They were an instant sensation, not just in Britain but also around the world. Too many famous names were implicated for the diaries to be ignored. The serialization rights earned several fortunes. The newspaper survived. And so did the marriage.

Trieste. Why did I choose it? Perhaps because I knew so little about the place. Hadn’t Winston Churchill once mentioned it as marking one end of the Iron Curtain? Perhaps it was that alone, and the fact that I was all too aware of my ignorance, that nudged me into making a few enquiries. Rather like Harry, I had no idea what I was stumbling into.

What a city! Trieste is filled with intrigue, romance, an extraordinary history and many wonderful people. One of the pleasures I’ve encountered in writing
Old Enemies
is the opportunity it has given me to get to know the city and those who live there, and I can only hope the many new friends I made will be content with my inevitably partial and incomplete description of its many attractions. An old and very cosmopolitan friend, Alexandros Kedros, started the process in his typically expansive style, supported by his lovely niece, Olympia Pappas, and her mother, Isarina. Their stories inspired me as much as their own friends and family who live in Trieste were later able to educate and entertain me – and in formidable style. They introduced me to Giulio Campos, who passed on much of his love of his home city, and in particular they introduced me to the former British consul in the city, John Dodds, who not only has been tireless in answering my questions but made my visit such fun, even when the rain threatened to sweep us off the Carso. John himself introduced me to others, and perhaps the most helpful and inspiring of these was Inspector Manuela de Giorgi, who is currently head of the Border Police Office. I owe her and her colleagues in the Trieste police a huge vote of thanks. Their assistance was as genuine as my entirely fictional character of Inspector D’Amato is flawed.

Before I leave Trieste I must recommend the finest book about the city, written by Jan Morris, which is entitled
Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere
. Her beautiful and mesmerizing descriptions capture the elusive, sleepy character of the place better than any other, and anyone thinking of visiting the city should devour her book. It’s not necessary to agree with all her conclusions in order to relish an exceptional piece of writing.

Old Enemies
has required me to delve into the murky and unpalatable world of kidnapping, and I have many people to thank for explaining so much of what takes place. Dr David Claridge of Janusian Security Risk Management was extremely helpful, and my distant cousin, Peter Dobbs, also had a hand in getting me underway. My old friend from Downing Street days, Barry Strevens, has also been kind and introduced me to Phil Atkinson of the Serious Organized Crime Agency. Both of them provided time and invaluable advice, while Tessara Coutts gave me all the inspiration I needed to set a scene in a hairdresser’s. She cuts my hair and tells me about cats, and does both wonderfully.

The expertise with helicopters of John Edward Taylor and Jamie Murray freed my imagination to fly through the Alps; the hospitality of Kevin Hughes helped me construct the scene based upon Brokers wine bar in the most relaxing of circumstances, and James Body, my neighbour from the other side of the hill in Wiltshire, taught me more about modern communications than I ever knew. I also hope my friend Cosmin Baduleteanu will forgive me for turning him into a ruthless criminal, while another friend, Will Hiley, celebrated his fiftieth birthday during the time this book was being written. I have marked an extraordinary evening of birthday celebrations by appropriating his name for one of the characters.

Three old friends deserve special mention. I can’t remember how many times I’ve thanked Andrei Vandoros in my books, and
Old Enemies
turns out to be no exception. His limitless knowledge and generosity never cease to lighten the sometimes heavy burden of writing, while between them, Ian Patterson and David Foster continue to provide the inspiration and very special advice that allow Harry to grow larger with every adventure.

Rachel and the boys have, as always, been there to massage my weary shoulders and turn furrows into laughter lines through the long months of writing. James and Liz Barnes, to whom this book is dedicated, are two of the finest friends I have ever had. I thank them from the bottom of my heart for all they have done, and for all they mean to the Dobbs family.

Michael Dobbs.
Wylye, September 2010.