She stripped. At that time of night, to save money, the water was cold and the heater off. She took a cold shower, shivering and flinching under the spray.
Consolata dressed. She saw the radio she had once left on so that she could monitor every news bulletin. She put it into a cupboard. She went upstairs and found a computer still switched on in the room next to the one where the meeting continued, and began to fill in the electronic diary with events in the coming days that supporters could attend. She thought she had leaped for the stars, but had fallen into the gutter. Nothing had altered. She felt broken by the power she had confronted, but would go back to war, armed with leaflets: someone had to.
They were the last to board. They sat together, the engines gained power and the plane started to taxi. The storm was close and the pilot wanted to be airborne.
It was rare for Carlo to engage in small-talk, but he asked, ‘Much on this weekend?’
‘I’ve a boy at college in Dresden. We’re due to go down and help him move to a new student hostel.’ Fred grimaced. ‘And I’ve papers to look at for a court appearance on Monday, vehicle theft. And you?’
‘Nothing much. My partner’s bought a new greenhouse, self-assembly from a flat pack. I hate them. And I’m behind with my expenses, not that they’ll add up to much. Also there’s a training course, ethnic diversity, on Monday that I have to read up on. I’m knackered, a bit vintage for all this. But it’s been fun.’
The surveillance team checked into Control.
They were not asked how they were, what they had achieved, whether they’d enjoyed the ready-to-eat rations, whether they’d fucked up or were heroes of the republic. They dumped their kit, were told where to go on Monday morning. There was a whiteboard on the wall, and they saw their names on it, beneath ‘Scorpion Fly’. That would have been cleaned off by the morning. Some of the kit went into the store, the weapons to the armoury . . . They’d drive together, find a beer somewhere, talk about something else.
The prosecutor had been to see the place, the hole leading into the bunker, and had declined to crawl inside. He was driven home and would be fresh in the morning to start his investigation into a family in Monasterace.
The aircraft had not been up for long. The flight path would take it north along the coast, then over the Bay of Naples and into Rome’s airport, Leonardo da Vinci.
Jack, or Giacomo, had been hustled on board by the lawyer.
There was a party of bird-watchers behind him and behind them the two men he had seen talking to his boss, Bent Horrocks, who had brought – according to the lawyer – catastrophe to the venture. He would ask few questions and would strenuously attempt to answer none. He assumed he would be met by the Flying Squad or the Crime Agency and would dedicate himself to seeming stupid, ignorant and amnesiac. He listened. Always one loudmouth on a plane who thought any opinion he held was valuable and wanted to share it. Jack couldn’t help but listen.
‘. . . I’m very pleasantly surprised . . . Did I say that on the bus? Well worth repeating, don’t you know? It seemed quieter, less hassle, in Reggio than usual. I didn’t feel threatened in any way. Maybe they’ve got things under control, the authorities, and the criminals are on the run. Not before time. It all looked pretty normal to me, just like anywhere . . . and the birds were wonderful. I’m thinking, and I’m never afraid to admit, I’m wrong, that all this talk of organised crime, corruption, violence may be overstated. Bloody newspapers – you know what I mean. Maybe it’s a myth . . . It’s been some of the best migratory birding I’ve ever known. That’s what’s important.’
He thought of Bent climbing awkwardly into the front passenger seat of the City-Van, touching his hair because he was off to an important meeting and wanted to look his best, and shivered. He looked behind him. The man with the mouth was quiet, eating a sandwich. The heads of the two guys behind the tripod crowd were lolling. He wondered how they could sleep, after what they’d done.
Water dripped from the roof of the cave.
The wind blustered outside. The damp clawed at his skin. He sensed the waiting was over. Thunder burst around them, funnelled through the cave entrance – the storm must have edged closer. The lightning flash lit them: he saw the girl and her father – one of her arms was around her father’s shoulders and the other was at her side, the hand in her lap. The pistol was beside her but she wasn’t holding it. The cave was in darkness again, except for the light of the torch, thrown on him and hiding them.