They had done it and could not undo it – neither would accept the burden of individual blame. They had not considered the consequences. Lunacy . . .
He had come, taken their food and disappeared back down the slope. There had been neither sight nor sound of him since. They had good night-vision equipment, the same as the regular military used and the secret service, and they knew that Marcantonio was on the seat at the end of the trellis, with the dogs. They had seen Giulietta leave with the driver, the cockerel had crowed, and the day would soon start. Mamma always came out of the kitchen door early with food for the chickens. They could follow her part of the way if they used the ‘heat-seeker’, but the batteries were damp so it was useless now.
They didn’t know where he was. They had not transmitted the picture they had taken of him when they had given him the food. Fabio and Ciccio had acknowledged that there were moments in even the most illustrious careers when information was suppressed, for reasons that were not easily explained. Why was he there? All they had was a meaningless statement concerning a woman’s face. They had absorbed the panorama below them without difficulty. They knew the ritual timelines of the family and its protectors, who were down the track, and had observed their routines. They knew, too, that the padrino was close by, but he was careful and had outwitted them.
Ciccio had said quietly, ‘If we get the old goat, we get him. If we don’t then I won’t cry myself to sleep. I’ll forget him and move on.’
The quiet lulled them. If nothing developed there would be just one more day. Their rubbish, kit and bedding would come out with them, and it would be as if they hadn’t lived in the cave. The rats would have free rein. Both were awake, but not alert.
The empty jar was close to Fabio’s hand, with the screw-on lid perforated for air circulation. When morning came, and the sun settled on the stone ledge in front of them, there was a good chance that a scorpion fly would materialise, a beautiful creature that Fabio had come to respect. Its forward feelers were as long as its body, and its legs were thin as hair; the wings were long and tucked back when it alighted, and at the base of the body the tail was honey-coloured and pointed at the tip from which its name came. Sad to see it trapped in the jar.
They were a peculiar breed, those who mounted watch on others, observing a target’s movements, and likely to be damned. He didn’t know if they had the stomach to catch more insects before time was called on Operation Scorpion Fly.
When the light came it was Ciccio’s turn to do breakfast. There was stillness in front of them, quiet, a sort of peace.
The slight tide of the Mediterranean pulled back. Bentley Horrocks walked on wet sand. The wind whipped his face. He felt cleansed. There was enough light for him to see the ripples, the water was cold on his feet and the sand clung to his skin. He didn’t do holidays. He’d send Trace and her sister away together, and Angel could take warm-weather breaks with the kids – they did the South of France or yacht cruises among the Croatian islands. He’d go to Margate to see his mother, no further, and he’d work, the phone – a different one every other day – latched to his ear, deals done, scores settled.
He felt good, and confident enough to let his anger surge.
They had sent a boy, showing no respect for Bent Horrocks. It would be different today, later this morning, Humphrey, the lawyer, had promised. The big man, the boss. He rehearsed them, the lines in his head. Peasants, weren’t they? They had the trade stitched up, the stuff coming on the long sea route from South America, but they were still peasants. He’d take no shit from them. He’d have guarantees of supply dates, and there’d be no payment until delivery reached him. He could have talked through the tactics with Jack, but he was half Italian – might have gone native and forgotten where his lifestyle came from. The lawyer had definitely gone native, and was in their pockets. He had not sought advice, didn’t need it. He was content . . .
God, Mum, in the apartment he had bought her at Margate, looking out on Marine Terrace and the beach, would have cackled if she’d seen him with his trousers rolled to the knee and walking in the darkness in the sea. She would have howled with laughter.
The stress of London, of running territory in Peckham, Rotherhithe and Deptford, keeping back the shites who snapped at his ankles, was behind him. He’d walk a bit further before he turned back.
He’d seen the driver leave, with Giulietta, and the kid depart on his scooter. He’d heard the cockerel crow. He hadn’t seen the dogs, or Marcantonio, while the kitchen light had been on. It still lit the yard.