They studied his posture and attempted to evaluate his state of mind. Some would have been present just a few days earlier when, in the shadow of the church at the shrine, he had introduced his grandson, returning from Berlin for the celebration of Mamma’s birthday. Would he continue to lead? Had he still the stomach for it?
When his daughter came into the kitchen, she refilled the glasses and prepared more coffee. She was smart and aloof, her own person, but she did not talk or bow to them. Soon, Marcantonio’s body would return, and they would escort it into the house. Then the visitors would leave. Bernardo thought the occasion had gone well, that judgements on his ability to continue had been suspended. He could not have hoped for more. He ached at the loss, but the boy had been a fool.
The matter of what Giulietta had seen early that morning, in the car park of a hotel in Brancaleone, clouded his mind. It remained an issue to be dealt with – and those she had seen in Locri, on the beach below the statue to the poet.
Carlo stood on the beach, the ripples of the wavelets against the toes of his shoes. Beside him was a carefully folded pile of clothes and the towel.
Flight out the next evening. Apologies had been made, but they would wait until after the funeral, then quit. Their achievement had been minimal.
Ten metres out, the water above his hips and below his armpits, Fred stood and shivered, then dived and swam powerfully.
Carlo was on his country’s business, as was the German. No gold commander waited in a dim-lit bunker for his report, no high-ranking civil servant pondered on the correctness of sending him into a dangerous area. No newspaper executives would be briefed after the mission was wound down. Put simply, in the corridors of Whitehall and the inner sanctums of government, nobody gave a flying fuck. Counter-terrorism would bring out the Parachute Regiment, the Apache gunships and limitless resources but the counter-narcotics programme languished.
What had he achieved so far? How were the chips stacked? Could have been worse. Bentley Horrocks would be wondering why the army of corrupt detectives, safeguarding him, had not given fair warning that he was under surveillance. Good enough to carry on with – and the chance of more to follow. They’d see the boy out, make sure he went clear.
Carlo was facing the sea. Fred had told him about the artefacts from here, how a scuba diver had come across the great bronzes that were now in a museum and internationally famous. He had seen an arm raised out of the sand on the seabed, and thought it was a dead human, but he was wrong. Instead he had happened across a miracle of history. Perhaps old Fred would surface clutching a pottery jar that had been down there for three thousand years.
He didn’t see them until they were almost on him. They had come so quietly. Five or six of them. He became aware of them when he smelt stale cigarettes and chilli on the breath. He had half turned. Hands reached up to push him. He stumbled forward.
‘For fuck’s sake, who the hell do you—?’
He nearly went down but didn’t. He careered away, trying to regain his balance, but hands were on his back and his head, and propelling him into the water. Young guys, with spiky hair, bright T-shirts and jeans, Nikes on their feet. There was sand, pebbles and driftwood. He went clumsily over the last of the beach and into the water. They followed him – nothing said, not a word. He didn’t see a knife or a cosh, and none of them had a ligature cord or a firearm. He was kicked in the backside and fell forward. Thrashed, swallowed, only a foot and a half deep but he’d gone into it and under. He came up heaving, coughing. Fred stood and watched. Sensible – not much else he could do. They came in after him and took hold of him. He saw Fred’s clothes thrown into the sea, his wallet and his trousers. They didn’t check what was inside the wallet or look at the ID. They knew whom they had. Some of the clothing floated and the rest sank. Carlo went under. Hands held his head, shoulders and arms, a leg in place to trip him. He flailed and fought but the kids were young – not middle-aged with beer guts and short of breath. He was under and the panic escalated.
He was drowning. Carlo thought Fred had come close to him, tried to free him and failed. He was terrified – Carlo, long-term Customs man and liaison officer, skilled in surveillance, had never known such fear. Under the water, blurred vision, the legs pressing tight on him, his lungs about to burst, he knew he was finished when he blew out the air. He felt the fight in him failing. He was beaten – get it over.
He was let go.
He didn’t know whether he was floating, or had gone back under. Fred had him. They were gone.
Fred held Carlo tight, bent him over and slapped his back, making him cough, retch. The water came out in reluctant spurts. He had to blink half a dozen times to clear his vision, then saw them. No jeering, no shouting, no cat-calls or abuse. They just walked back towards the road. Job done.
He was helped back to the beach.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes,’ Carlo said, then coughed and heaved.
‘You hurt?’