The Memory Trap Read online

  ‘What?’

  ‘”Scheduled Unspecific Routine Exercise”—“SURE” for short, David. They have ‘em all the time these days.’ But then Mitchell cocked an eye at the Italian. ‘Are you telling us that this time they’re not so … “sure”, maybe?’

  Cuccaro studied each of them for a moment. ‘There is a great deal of … activity, in many different quarters. Very disturbing activity, Professore.’

  The engine-note beneath them changed from a controlled drone almost to silence, as though it were no longer propelling the boat. The harbour lay just ahead of them, with the island towering up above on each side of the crowded anchorage.

  ‘What sort of activity?’ snapped Audley.

  ‘Your Major Richardson is not the only person who has become hard to find.’ Cuccaro lifted one shoulder dismis-sively. ‘He has not been my concern, until now, as I have already told you. But there are others … ‘He stared at Audley ‘ … whose sudden absence makes for nervousness.’

  That, at least, Audley understood. Cuccaro must be an anti-terrorist man, among other things. And one of the first suspicious signs of any impending terrorist operation was the departure of the representatives of suspected terrorist-front agencies to safer climes beyond European jurisdiction.

  But where the devil did that leave Elizabeth’s Arab?

  ‘I see.’ That Arab was a damnable coincidence, more likely than not. Because, whatever Kulik had been offering them, the Russians weren’t into terrorism in these heady Glasnost days—if anything, quite the opposite … except that, neither were they into bad-publicity assassinations, by the same token. Yet, in the meantime, the last thing he wanted in the immediate future was Cuccaro breathing down his neck. ‘Well, that’s really rather reassuring.’

  ‘It is?’ It was Mitchell who spoke. But then, in his present post-Dublin twitchy state, he was another candidate for reassurance.

  ‘Oh yes.’ He forced himself to brighten. ‘Major Richardson may be a … smuggler.’ He attempted an Italian gesture, half apologetic, half-cynical, as he turned back to Cuccaro. ‘And, if he is, my Government would deeply regret that … which, quite frankly, comes as much as a surprise—a most embarrasing surprise—to us as it would appear to have come to your people, Captain.’ Not even Jack Butler could find fault with such diplomatic language. But he had to harden it, nevertheless. ‘And you can rest assured that after we have spoken with him we will place him at your disposal. And then the law must take its course, naturally.’

  They were all looking at him now. But the boat was wallowing in the swell outside the harbour, so they were all also finding it difficult to keep their feet as they did so, even the Italian himself.

  ‘After—?’ Cuccaro managed to steady himself. Then he looked uneasily towards the harbour. ‘Are you saying that you wish for no protection, Professore?’

  ‘Protection from whom?’ Securely anchored to his stanchion, Audley could concentrate on asserting himself. ‘The Mafia is none of my business. And I am none of theirs. They do not know me—they do not know of me. Why should they?’ He shrugged. ‘And, in any case, since Major Richardson has arranged this rendezvous with Dr Mitchell I think we may reasonably confide that they will not be attending it.’ He smiled at Cuccaro. “Confide” was an admirably diplomatic word, with its nuances of smugness and self-importance—a very Henry-Jaggard-word. And that encouraged him to go further. ‘I am simply visiting an old friend-and-colleague, to discuss matters from long ago, Captain. The fact that my old friend-and-colleague happens to have a problem of his own relating to certain—ah—certain unwise activities in which he has engaged … that is a mere coincidence.’ But now he must sugar the pill. ‘But he, of course, may not regard it as any such thing. More likely, he will have assumed that my appearance relates to those … alleged activities. In which case he will be expecting advice. And my advice will be that he must give himself up immediately.’ No smile now: magisterial disapproval now! ‘Indeed, I shall insist that he does that. And I will tell him that there is an unmarked craft waiting for him, to ensure his safety.’ He nodded the words home. ‘I trust that such an undertaking meets your requirements, Captain?’

  ‘Hmmm … ‘ Mitchell emitted an uneasy sound.

  ‘Yes, Dr Mitchell?’

  “Protection from whom?” was what was exercising Mitchell’s mind. And it might be as well to deal with the problem of Mitchell here and now, while he was inhibited by Cuccaro’s presence. ‘I take it you agree with me?’

  ‘Mmm—yes, of course.’ Mitchell gave him an old-fashioned look, but then brightened falsely as he turned to Cuccaro. ‘We can perhaps leave Miss Loftus with you, Captain. We should be able to handle the Major between us, I don’t doubt—yes.’

  ‘Not “we”, Dr Mitchell.’ Audley shook his head. ‘You will both remain here, of course.’

  Mitchell opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. ‘My instructons, Dr Audley—‘

  ‘My instructions are to meet with Major Richardson, Dr Mitchell.’ The only problem was that Mitchell had not been very precise. But Captain Cuccaro’s presence could be helpful there, too. ‘Where did you say the meeting-place was—?’ He nodded politely to the Captain. ‘We appreciate your co-operation in this matter, sir. So there shall be no secrets between us.’ He extended the politeness to Mitchell. ‘Yes, Dr Mitchell—?’

  Mitchell was ambushed—horse, foot and guns. And there was nothing he could do about it. ‘The Villa Jovis.’

  ‘And where is that?’ He beamed at Captain Cuccaro co-operatively. ‘The Villa San Michele I have heard of, Captain … but I am afraid that I am not conversant with the geography of Capri … as, no doubt, both you and Major Richardson are—?’

  Cuccaro, equally ambushed, stared at him for a moment. And then pointed. ‘It is on the other—‘ he searched for the right word ‘—the other mountain, Professore, from San Michele. It is on Monte Tiberio—‘

  ‘Monte Tiberio?’ Audley ducked under the awning to follow the line of Cuccaro’s finger, to the left. ‘And … the Villa Jovis—what is that?’

  ‘It is the palace of Tiberius.’

  ‘Of Tiberius?’ All he could see was what looked like a statue on the high point of the peak, above a fringe of trees, with a scatter of white houses below. So, presumably, the old emperor had been reinstated (probably by Mussolini, in his bid to re-establish the Roman Empire?), to look down on his special island. Which was a nice thought: old Wimpy, in his most memorable Latin lessons, had been a great Tiberius-admirer, disdainful of Tacitus and Suetonius as “mere gossipers” who had libelled a good man in his old age.

  ‘It is a ruin.’ Cuccaro was also staring. ‘It is … a maze? How do you say—? There are many walls, and staircases … and arches … on many levels, on the hillside. A maze?’

  ‘A labyrinth?’ All he could see was a hint of a platform among the trees.

  ‘A labyrinth—yes!’ Cuccaro welcomed the word. ‘And … it is a long walk up there, by a narrow path between the houses. A path not for cars, you understand—? The cars—the taxis … they go only from the Marina Grande to Capri town, below. Then you must walk, between the houses and their gardens to reach the … excavations.’ He turned to Audley, as though questioning his ability to make such a journey. ‘It is a long walk, Professore.’

  But maybe that wasn’t what he was thinking about at all. And quite rightly, too! Even, in all these new circumstances, quite predictably?

  ‘Well … that’s good, then.’ He nodded from Cuccaro to Mitchell.

  ‘Good?’ Mitchell frowned at him. ‘How is it “good”, David?’

  ‘Good for a rendezvous.’ Audley nodded, pursing his lips. ‘Only one way in—one way out … that’s usually bad. But a long way in—then you can sit down somewhere, and see who’s coming. And decide accordingly?’ He cocked his head at them both. ‘The Major has a bad conscience, maybe? And, although I’m an old colleague—an old friend … I could be setting him up—for the Guardia di Finanza, if not
the Mafia?’ He concluded with Mitchell. ‘And we trained him—remember?’ He gave Mitchell a thin smile, even as his own personal memories of Richardson increased his own doubts. ‘What would you do, if you thought the roof was falling in on you, Dr Mitchell?’

  Mitchell stared at him. Because what Mitchell would do in that event was to be somewhere else, far away from trouble and even further away from old friends and colleagues. But he couldn’t admit that in front of the Italian.

  ‘So Major Richardson will be watching out up there, and waiting.’ Audley nodded, home at last. And then nodded towards Monte Tiberio. ‘But if I turn up with someone he doesn’t know … if Captain Cuccaro accompanies me, or gives me an escort … then, if he has been up to no good all these years, he’ll sit tight, wherever he is. And he’ll walk off, eventually, when he knows the coast is clear—right?’

  ‘Is that what you really think, David?’ Elizabeth unwound suddenly.

  ‘What I really think, Miss Loftus, is that we don’t really have any choice in the matter. Because, if I take a long walk, up there … with you and Dr Mitchell in attendance, never mind whatever quite unnecessary protection the Italian authorities may have imagined is appropriate … if that’s what we do, then we’ll all have wasted our valuable time. Because the Major is waiting for me, and no one else. And I haven’t come this far to waste my time, Miss Loftus.’

  They all hated that: they were agreed on that. But they also couldn’t argue with its logic effectively, in front of each other, without aborting the mission, never mind questioning his authority. Which put them all on the line.

  ‘So that’s agreed, then.’ He chose to accept their silent hate as agreement. It was only like it always was, after all: they weren’t about to reward him with their approval, any more than he ever applauded Jack Butler for making logical decisions with which he couldn’t argue, however much he disliked the profit-and-loss calculation involved.

  And, anyway, what was agreeable was that it was like the old days, when there wasn’t a car and a driver in attendance, and another talkative committee meeting at the other end: it wasn’t boring.

  ‘Well—let’s get on with it, then.’ He pointed at Capn.

  5

  HE WAS JUST getting into the taxi when Paul Mitchell appeared out of nowhere, pushing his way through the late-season tourists who thronged the quayside of the Marina Grande.

  Audley decided not to frown, although that was his first inclination. For he had half-expected Mitchell to try something like this, he realized. So he merely raised his eyebrows instead.

  ‘What is it now?’ He had to concede that it had been Mitchell, at the very last moment before he disembarked, who had remembered to supply him with a wad of Italian Monopoly-money, without which he could probably not have penetrated the Villa Jovis ancient monument itself, let alone hired transport to get him near it. ‘What else have I forgotten?’

  Mitchell gave the taxi-driver a friendly grin. ‘Speak English? No? Well then … momenta per favore?’ He turned to Audley. ‘Give me your coat, David.’

  ‘Why?’ Audley saw that Mitchell was carrying some sort of alternative garment.

  ‘You don’t look like a tourist.’ Mitchell eyed his crumpled second-best suit with distaste. ‘You look like a businessman who’s slept in his suit. And that won’t do.’ He thrust the garment at Audley. ‘Take off your jacket.’

  ‘F—‘ But then he decided to give in gracefully while he still seemed to be winning. ‘Oh—very well!’

  He peeled off his jacket. And then remembered to rescue his passport, warrant card, credit cards and Eurocheques, without all of which he never felt he really existed when he was far from home.

  Mitchell accepted the jacket in return for what seemed to be some sort of lightweight windcheater, and fretted as Audley bestowed the proofs of his real existence in its breast-pockets. ‘Now the tie, David.’

  ‘The tie?’ But, of course, tourists didn’t wear West Sussex Yeomanry ties.

  ‘Get in the taxi.’

  That, at least, was sensible: in the taxi he was out of sight, if there were any prying eyes hereabouts. But then Mitchell held the door so that he couldn’t close it, and leaned into the gap.

  ‘This isn’t one of your very best ideas, David. Aren’t you getting a bit long in the tooth for fun-and-games?’

  Audley gave up trying to wrestle the door closed. Arguably, the substitution of the jackets might be sensible. But that had simply been Mitchell’s excuse to Captain Cuccaro, rather than another belated bit of sense. ‘You are supposed to be making polite conversation with Cuccaro, Mitchell. So that he doesn’t queer my pitch.’

  Mitchell screwed up his second-best jacket. ‘Your pitch is already too bloody queer for my liking, David. What the hell are you up to?’

  ‘I’m not “up” to anything. I’m obeying orders. Just as you are.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mitchell held the door rock-firm. ‘I thought my orders were to watch your back. And yours were not to take any unnecessary risks.’

  ‘Your orders were to obey my orders.’ The real trouble with Paul Mitchell was that he’d never been a soldier. But the immediate problem was to get the taxi-door closed. ‘I’m not taking an unnecessary risk, Paul—I’m taking a calculated one. Because everything I said on the boat is true. Or … everything I said about Peter, anyway. And I know him better than you do: I know how he was trained to think. So I know what he’ll do if he’s running scared.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’ Mitchell’s face was like his hold on the door.

  ‘It was—yes.’ He slackened his own hold deliberately. ‘But he won’t have forgotten. And he’ll know that I haven’t, either.’

  A muscle on the corner of Mitchell’s mouth twitched. ‘But we still don’t know what’s really going on, David. So … you’re going in blind.’ He glanced uneasily at the taxi-driver, who had settled down with a tattered newspaper. ‘After what happened in … to Elizabeth, David?’

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘Damn right, it is! It’s a bloody-sight riskier—‘ Mitchell stopped as his anger roused the taxi-driver from his sports page.

  ‘Signor—?’ The man looked questioningly from Mitchell to Audley as though he feared they were about to come to blows. ‘Avanti, huh?’

  ‘Avanti.’ Audley agreed, and then transferred his nod to Mitchell as he felt the door move. ‘No one else is expecting me up there. I don’t exist—remember. So just hold Cuccaro for one hour, Paul. And that’s an order. Then you can all come up and admire the view with me. Understood?’

  Another twitch. ‘You know … I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t think you were enjoying yourself, David—‘ The final click of the door, and then the thickness of the window and the sound of the engine drowned the rest of Mitchell

  ’

  s considered judgement, so that Audley was spared it.

  Then the taxi began to nose its way through the crowd.

  Mitchell wasn’t stupid, of course: his last shot had been a bull, right in the centre of the target. And his previous shot had been an inner, too close to the bull for comfort maybe.

  But then he had been on-target all along, towards the end of the exchange: the whole thing had been a cock-up, from start to now, from London-and-Berlin to London-and-Capri—

  There was a map in a plastic folder, prudently attached to a piece of string, on the back seat. And, translating kilometres into miles, Capri wasn’t very big, mercifully.

  ‘Villa Jovis?’ He inquired politely.

  The taxi-driver shrugged. “Piazza, signor.’

  Audley found the Piazza on the map. Cuccaro had said it was

  “

  a long walk

  ”

  to the ruins, hadn

  ’

  t he? But it was no more than a mile-and-a-bit, maybe even less. And distances on land always confused naval men.

  Or had it been Mitchell who had said that? But it didn’t matter, anyway. Because he no longer
wanted to think about either Mitchell or Cuccaro—

  He paid the driver off eventually, with what seemed a lot of Mitchell’s Monopoly-money. But presumably the clock had been ticking down there, in the Marina Grande, far below.

  It was no good looking around: he wouldn’t spot anyone if he’d miscalculated, or if Mitchell hadn’t held Cuccaro. And it wasn’t because the place was too crowded, the narrow streets and tiny squares, because they weren’t and it wasn’t—not this late in the season, and in the middle of the day—the mezzogiorno so beloved of all Mediterranean peoples (and maybe Richardson had calculated that, too?). It was, simply, that he was in the middle of his own calculated risk now, so that there was no one he would know, friend or foe, to be able to spot, in any case.

  Except Peter himself. And it was Peter’s job to spot him now, not the other way round.

  Peter Richardson—

  The truth was that he hadn’t really known the man very well, all those years ago, whatever Butler and everyone else might think from the record, either from what Fred Clinton might have chosen to add to it by way of footnotes, or because of his established reputation for never-forgetting. But he could feel his memory expanding under pressure (as it always did) … and he knew more now, of course—however surprising Cuccaro’s information had been—

  Mitchell had said it would be a long walk. But that hadn’t meant anything: he could walk anyone off their feet, any time. And it was a small island, with small (but mercifully well-signposted!) paths directing him to the Villa Jovis, with anything like an actual road soon left far behind—narrow paths winding among desirable holiday residences tucked behind walls and gardens, or separated by tiny hillside vineyards—But it was a long walk, by God!

  Maybe not surprising, at that … Or, trying to imagine Richardson short of cash was the first challenge: with Peter the money had always been evident if not just short of flashy—not just the always-new car (and the always new, but never serious, girl), but also the throwaway asides (that first time he had known more about Cheltenham racecourse than Cheltenham GCHQ). And it had been old money too, everyone had assumed (of the sort old Fred Clinton notoriously preferred in his recruits): old blue-blooded maternal money, derived from the legendary principessa and her palazzo inheritance. Fred had been almost as happy with that as with the alpha-plus results from the aptitude tests … although, as it had transpired, someone had blundered there too, in not discerning that there had been no true inclination towards scholarship, let alone the happy drudgery of research, to go with those special aptitudes—