He took off each garment, wrung it out and found a little point of rock where he could lodge it. He had satisfied himself that it could not be seen, that the undergrowth and the sight line hid it. The overhang behind him would prevent it being visible to the upper point from which he estimated the sneeze had come. He guessed the man who had sneezed was on surveillance and would have the best gear. He would be dry and snug. The wind swirled around him, and he held his arms across the front of his body. He tipped the water out of his trainers. His body was dry now, but the wind was cold.
A matter of time: how long before the clothes dried in the wind? Another matter: how long before he froze to death, naked? And another: how long before the moon had climbed high enough to light the ledge where he stood? He didn’t think he could be seen from behind, where the sneezes had come from, or by the men down the track or the kid with the dogs.
His vest went.
It was white, had been washed at the laundry off Stresemann-strasse. Something, a twig or a leaf, had caught between the toes of his left foot. He had kicked out and the movement had dislodged the vest. It had been laid neatly. The wind had lifted it as if it was a crisps packet at a school gate. He lurched to catch it.
And failed.
He trod on sharp rock and recoiled.
But for that pain, Jago might have caught his vest. It floated, and the wind took it across to where the hillside fell away. It cleared some scrub and snagged on a branch, waving like a flag.
Jago sagged. He could have cried. He was no longer a part of that family.
They were in a bed-and-breakfast because the German embassy in Rome had not thought it appropriate to book them into a hotel. The place was three streets back from the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, no view from either room, but the showers were hot.
They had come back to the address and checked in. They had left a trail of rivulets from the front door to the reception table, made lakes under their feet while they checked in, then splashed towards the stairs. That had been where Carlo had declared himself. He’d said, ‘Fred, I want you to know I’m a low achiever, a plodder. That’s the nature of my working life.’
The German had answered, ‘I am no different. Our word is Arbeitstier. I do what I can, give my best, but have not yet changed the world. My best is probably poor. I am beyond middle age, almost a veteran, and I am not considered suitable for promotion.’
A sodden hug at the top of the stairs and they had gone to their rooms. Carlo assumed that a pile of clothing lay abandoned on Fred’s floor. The shower warmed him – gave him hope for the future. But the knock on the door was peremptory, the sort that cops or Customs delivered. He’d done it himself. There was a towel round his waist when he opened the door, and he’d dripped more water across the floor from the bathroom.
Carlo had said, ‘A “plodder” is an honourable rank, but seldom wins a medal. I think we oil the cogs.’
Fred had replied, ‘The crowds don’t cheer when an Arbeitstier goes by, but we have a part to play.’
Three carabinieri stood in the doorway: impeccable uniforms, laundered white shirts, neatly knotted ties. One’s fists were clenched, all had set jaws, and no respect in their eyes. Carlo was not sure whether the tuck he’d done with the towel would hold, and whether he’d suffer worse embarrassment. The next door was open too: Fred’s head poked out. There was a face at the back, the last of the three. He might have been an older man, with three-day designer stubble. The uniform looked inappropriate on him. His face lightened. The grin cracked it open. Laughter rang out. ‘Hey, it’s Carlo!’
‘Fuck me, Tano! Top man.’
The guy’s arms wrapped around him. The towel might have slipped but it didn’t seem to matter. The carabinieri hadn’t been given their names, but knew where they were staying. They had come to deliver an ultimatum from the prosecutor: the Palace of Justice at eight in the morning. An old association was rekindled, and kisses were exchanged. Then Fred was pulled in, and the other two in their uniforms. Fred said whom he had worked with after Duisburg. No one talked shop, and nothing was said about the missing Jago Browne. There was chatter about promotion and retirement, marriages and mistresses, who had moved away, who was disgraced, and a time was fixed for a meeting in the Ciroma Bar when the uniforms would have been ditched for jeans and T-shirts.
A grimace, and Tano, the maresciallo with the build of a veteran boxer said, ‘But I could weep for the circumstances that bring you back to us, Carlo. Your fugitive may speed the professional death of a valued law enforcer – but that’s for tomorrow. Tonight is old times.’
They were gone. He clutched the towel and felt a little better.
Fred smiled, wintry. ‘Friendship is good but never helped put on handcuffs. A girl’s face was cut, there was extortion. I was as unprofessional as I’ve ever been. I, too, want to hurt that family. We are not here for a vacation, a circus or nostalgia.’
‘A few beers, and whatever we can manage, that’s all we can hope for. Why they sent us.’
‘We are here to cringe, Carlo, because of Jago Browne. They will piss on the Arbeitstier and the plodder.’
They closed their doors, went to dress.