Ciccio thought it a noise to raise the dead. Fabio was humiliated.
Ciccio couldn’t believe that his friend, colleague and surveillance partner would sneeze so loudly. Fabio gripped the sleeve of Ciccio’s jacket: his gesture of apology. The moment passed.
They were dry. Their gear was waterproof and they could shelter in the recess. That bloody bird had woken Ciccio while Fabio was on watch. There were no lights in the house that they could see. Fabio murmured another apology, and Ciccio punched him.
The rain was brutal. Neither man nor beast would be out in it.
Ciccio murmured, mouth to ear, ‘Your sneeze makes no difference in the grand scheme of things. Nobody heard you because nobody’s around. We’re alone. You could take off your clothes, stand in the open, wash yourself in the rain and sing an aria without being seen or heard. I have a problem. Will the scorpion flies in the jar deteriorate in the damp? Will they be useless for my friend’s research? Should we ditch them and catch some more when this fucking rain stops?’
Fabio told him he was more interested in discussing breakfast: should they have the fruit candy from the pre-packaged meals today or tomorrow?
Were they wasting their time? Neither, Ciccio knew, could doubt the purpose of the mission. They could harbour doubt but not share it. The cloud was solid and the wind moaned above them. Both men would now have started to count the hours that remained for them to endure on the hillside. They would be thinking of their women, hot showers, proper sleep and beer. It was necessary for both Ciccio and Fabio to remember the good days when they had watched from an eyrie as a storm squad of cacciatore troops exploded into a building with stun grenades and went for an arrest based on information provided by the guys in the covert OP. It was always good then, the insect bites and constipation. But they had seen no trace of the target.
Fabio whispered, ‘It’s under control. It won’t happen again.’
‘Who was there to hear you? Only that fucking bird.’
The sand was in her hair and on the back of her legs. The tide had reached its high point and waves frothed over her toes. Consolata thought she was in the right place.
The rain had started on the far side of the Aspromonte and would have beaten in off the Ionian Sea, then lingered at the mountain barrier before edging to the Tyrrhenian Sea and the beach. The couple had gone, and so had the man repairing nets. His boat was only a few metres from the incoming tide. She was alone.
She thought of the boy, neither with fondness nor a suggestion of guilt. The water curled between her toes, but fell hard from the sky, soaking her clothes, which stuck to her skin and outlined her body. She pictured the boy: water streaming down his face, hair and clothing drenched, but he would be there. He might have found cover, and might not. He would be close to the house, and might already have cobbled together an idea. He would do something. She herself had crossed a frontier, had aided and abetted illegality, and rejoiced. Nothing would be the same again. She remembered humiliations, inflicted pain, a small shop window where paint tins had been on display. She might have felt gratitude to Jago Browne for changing her.
She was on the beach in the rain, soaked to the skin, and she had shared in his experience. He had seen her in the sea and that would have been enough to send him forward. Of course he would go forward. She couldn’t imagine what he would do when he’d cornered Marcantonio. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he would crumble under a counter-attack. She had played her part and was satisfied.
Close to three millennia before, the boats would have tried to navigate the strait, with the whirlpool of Charybdis or the razor rocks of Scylla. Only the bravest and most skilled were able, in grim weather, to navigate the gap. Consolata was confused. She had happened on him, had heard a gabbled story, had stiffened his resolve, had helped him. She had made retreat difficult. She didn’t know whether he was brave and skilful or a lonely fool.
The rain and the wind lashed her.
Carlo had been given the number. He rang it from the airport concourse.