Albatross (39 page)

There was anger in his voice. ‘They are already blaming us for lack of protection. I believe my government will point out that you can't protect someone unless you know he's in your country. I can't think how our American colleagues could have taken such a risk with a public figure.'

‘Perhaps they thought it was less of a risk than letting other people know,' Davina answered. ‘We mustn't keep you. Good night, Signor Modena. I hope you catch whoever did it.'

He shook her hand without enthusiasm. ‘I shall do my best. Good night.'

When he had gone, Johnson said, ‘That was below the belt, wasn't it, Miss Graham? He didn't like that last crack at all.'

‘It happens to be true,' she said. ‘The country's so bloody riddled with Mafia and corruption of every kind that nobody would trust them with anything. But there wasn't any reason why Franklyn shouldn't take a private holiday with his daughter, using another name. Whoever got him has contacts at the highest level. Which rather answers my question, don't you think?'

‘Borisov,' Johnson nodded. ‘If they had a go at the Pope through a Bulgarian terrorist outlet, why not this? Why not?'

‘He's very good at getting people killed,' Davina said quietly.

It was a long time ago, Johnson remembered, but she hadn't forgotten. Her husband had been murdered in Australia. Igor Borisov had planned the assassination. He was a junior officer then; now he was the head of the KGB, exact counterpart to Davina Graham. What would happen, he wondered, if those two ever met?

‘I don't think we'll get much help from their lab people,' Tim said after a pause. ‘Or the forensic. I don't think Secura's going to share anything with anyone.'

‘They aren't.' Davina lit a cigarette. She had tried to give up the habit, nagged by Walden; her resolution was forgotten now. ‘And if they don't like us asking questions, I wish the buggers joy when the CIA gets here.'

Johnson paused by the door. ‘Are you going back tomorrow?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘It's supposed to be our holiday. I'll have to see.'

He went down the corridor, humming the gondoliers' sugary serenade. ‘O Sole Mio'. She didn't miss a trick and she didn't give a damn what people thought. He admired her for it, but he didn't find it attractive.

Walden was sitting up reading when Davina came in. ‘How did it go, darling?' There was no resentment at being left out, thank God. No macho nonsense. He understood the job and its demands upon them both. She went over and kissed him gratefully.

‘You are a love,' she said. ‘Sorry I was so long. I needn't have bothered, actually.'

‘Why not?' He put his book aside. He knew that stubborn look and the set of her chin.

‘The Italians aren't going to give us anything,' she said flatly. ‘I can see why, of course, but it doesn't make it any easier in a case like this. They're acutely embarrassed and on the defensive. They'll protect their own reputation even if it means letting the killers off the hook. I could have hit that bastard tonight. All he was thinking of was his own side!'

‘Wouldn't that be true if it had happened in Britain?' Walden asked her.

Davina looked quickly at him. ‘You have a talent for saying the bloodiest things, don't you? Yes, of course it would, but not if I could help it. If this is what I think it is, there's no room for national pride or inter-service rivalries. We're just cutting our own throats in the West if we don't work together.'

‘What do you think it is, or can't you tell me?'

She undressed and got into bed beside him. ‘I think we're at the start of a chain of assassinations,' she said after a moment. ‘I don't know why I think so, but I do. I think Borisov is behind it, but it'll be impossible to prove.'

‘But what's his motive?' Walden asked her.

‘I don't know,' Davina admitted. ‘And I won't know till a pattern starts emerging. And that means another murder.'

Italy had done well. It was interesting to consider, in the words of the Christian Bible, how many were called to do his kind of work, but how few chosen. A very special talent was needed to kill in this way. Take away the profit motive – there was no shortage of mercenaries – and substitute an ideal with which the killer could make his impulses respectable, and there was a deadly weapon in the right hands.

There was a spectacular view from his window. He never tired of looking out over the changing skies, the variety of sunsets. And he liked the tranquillity of being alone and able to think. The vagaries of human nature concerned him more and more; he had long ago learned to despise it and to capitalize upon its weaknesses.

Whoever had said that man was made in God's image had a poor opinion of God. But God was a myth, one among many which mankind needed to combat the fear of death and nothingness. In the East they had made a virtue of nothingness – pretending that the darkness and the worms were the ultimate form of human achievement. He had made a study of comparative religion; it amused him to test them intellectually. And from that study and the need to utilize human psychology, he had evolved the organization which he called the Company of Saints. It amused him to equate his band of death-dealing disciples with the great host of Christian souls grouped round the throne of God in Majesty. There was a magnificent canvas in the Hermitage depicting the Last Judgement with all the scope and imagery of the Italian Renaissance. The blessed chanted praises round the dispenser of final justice, while the wicked were sucked into a fiery hell. He had reversed the roles. Italy had done well, he said again. It was a perfect operation, meticulously planned and executed with maximum impact. One less enemy, and all the repercussions from his death would benefit him. He turned away from his contemplation by the window.

It was time he took up the other burdens of his public life.

2

The weather was so mild that the Grahams were having breakfast on the terrace. Marchwood faced south, so that the front of the old house was bathed in sunlight.

The front terrace was Captain Graham's innovation; he liked to read the morning papers there and, when it was warm enough, to enjoy breakfast overlooking the splendid garden at the front. He was reading
The Times
, exclaiming as he did so. Davina's mother usually made pleasant noises during this ritual and thought about her flowers. But not that morning. The dreadful murder of the American politician had upset them both. Captain Graham was reading excerpts aloud to her, and instead of thinking about spraying the roses, Betty Graham was paying full attention.

‘And that poor daughter,' she said. ‘Only nineteen – it's unthinkable what people will do these days!'

‘They're the scum of the earth,' her husband retorted. He put the paper down. ‘Where's Charlie?' He loved having his favourite child living at home and his grandson was a marvellous bonus. He was always asking where she was, or wandering off to find the boy. His wife thought it was touching and sweet. It had never entered her head to be jealous of his love for their beautiful daughter. She pitied Davina because she had minded being second-best so much.

‘I think she's coming now,' she said. ‘I can hear Fergie.' They had engaged a local girl to help look after the little boy. Fergus Graham felt it took rather too much out of Charlie. He often said to his wife that she had never quite recovered from the awful shock of two years ago.

‘Darling,' Mrs Graham said, ‘the coffee's still hot. I'll make you some more toast.'

Charlie Kidson thanked her with a kiss. Her father beamed. Really she was a lovely girl, and still so young-looking. Nobody would have given her a day more than, say, twenty-eight. Not thirty-seven, not three years from forty. That abundant red hair, the too thin figure, the girlish laugh. Not heard so often now, not since she found out about her husband. It grieved him to think that she was sad. And she wouldn't apply for a divorce. He couldn't understand it. It wasn't like Charlie to sit still and let life pass her by.

‘Pat's going to take the Monster for a walk,' Charlie said. She referred to her son by his nickname; it rather shocked some people who didn't realize that she adored him. She picked up the paper and glanced at the headlines. They had watched the late news together the night before. She had gone up to bed rather abruptly, her parents thought.

‘That ghastly thing,' she said. She drank some coffee. Then she looked at her father. ‘I expect Davina will be revelling in it. I couldn't stop thinking about her last night. I didn't get to sleep for hours.'

‘You shouldn't let it get on your nerves,' her father said. ‘Forget about her, Charlie. I've said this over and over to you. She doesn't come here any more. She's stopped writing. Put it out of your mind.'

‘I do,' Charlie insisted. ‘But something like this brings it all back. I thought of her last night, sitting in her bloody office, queen of the heap at last, while the poor little Monster grows up without his father and John sits in Moscow, drinking himself to death. Do you know, Daddy, I've thought about going out to join him?' She saw the alarm on her father's face and then shook her head quickly. ‘No, not seriously, just when I felt so fed up and angry about what happened … when I thought about Fergie. Of course I wouldn't go. I'd loathe it and I'd loathe John too for ruining everything. I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry.' She got up and put her arms round him.

‘It would kill us if you went,' he said. ‘Remember what he did. You couldn't live with that.'

‘I know I couldn't.' Charlie went back to her chair. ‘Maybe I should get a job, Daddy. Pat can cope with Monster during the week. All I do is drip around here and he doesn't need much now. Mother won't let me near the kitchen.'

‘As you can't boil an egg, darling,' Mrs Graham came back with the toast, ‘it's not surprising. What's she grumbling about, Fergus?'

‘She's not,' he said rather testily. ‘She's had a bad night and she's upset.' He got up and shuffled back into the house. He was far less active than a year ago; age had suddenly encroached upon him. He had never moved like a man of seventy before disaster struck Charlie. Mrs Graham looked after him for a moment.

‘You mustn't worry him,' she said quietly. ‘He hasn't been well lately.
Are
you upset, Charlie? What's the matter?'

‘I was talking about Davina,' her daughter said slowly. ‘She's in her element with this Venice nightmare, isn't she, Mum? I can just imagine her, can't you?'

‘No,' Mrs Graham said, ‘I can't. And that's a terrible thing to say. I know you're bitter and you've every reason, but I won't let you talk about her like that.'

‘If it wasn't for Daddy,' Charlie remarked, ‘you'd still see her, wouldn't you?'

Betty Graham rarely asserted herself, but when she did her family listened. ‘Yes, I would. Davina's my daughter just as much as you are. I think it's time you pulled yourself together, Charlie, and stopped feeling sorry for yourself. Perhaps you should do some voluntary work. Helping other people is the best way of taking one's mind off one's self. I'm going into the village to do some shopping. Do you want to come?'

‘No thanks, Mummy.' Charlie had flushed. For a moment her eyes filled with tears. She wasn't used to being chided and she reacted like a child, resentful and uncertain. For Christ's sake, can't you grow up even now? And back the answer came to her. No, you can't, and you never will so long as you nestle under Daddy's wing. Just as you did with your husband, with every man you've ever known. Poor, helpless, beautiful little me, I must be taken care of. It's time you stood up on your own two feet. She got up and gathered the crockery onto the tray. ‘I'll put these in the dishwasher,' she said.

‘Thank you, darling.' Mrs Graham had said what she felt and it wouldn't be repeated. She wasn't a woman who created an atmosphere.

Charlie went into the kitchen, loaded the dishes, poured the powder and switched on the machine. She went upstairs to her room, not because there was anything to do. Pat cleaned the nursery. Charlie was meticulously tidy about her own surroundings. She went up to be alone and to cry if she felt like it. Her reflection was a comfort; looking at herself diverted her attention from less pleasant things. Still beautiful – not a line, not a blemish on the perfect skin. Damn it, if she cried, it made her eyelids swell. She'd cried enough. Davina wasn't crying. As she had said to her father, her sister was on top of the heap, successful, carrying on an affair with a very rich man, living her life exactly as she wished. The tables had certainly turned for both of them. She had achieved it all at the price of Charlie's happiness. It was easy enough for her mother to reproach her for being bitter. She had the same cool quality of detachment as Davina. Her father understood because he and Charlie felt the same. Voluntary work, her mother had suggested.

Charlie addressed herself in the glass. ‘You're not just miserable,' she said aloud. ‘You're bored to death as well. It's time you did something about it.'

Later that day, when her parents were lulled by an afternoon sitting in the sun and she had set out to be particularly thoughtful and sweet to them, she announced that she was going up to London to buy some new clothes and look up her old friends.

‘Why don't we go down to Sicily for a few days? It'll be perfect, not too hot.'

Davina shook her head. ‘I can't, darling. I wish I could. I can't leave Humphrey in London and Tim coping out here while I swan around finishing my holiday. I've got to go back.' She slipped her arm round him. ‘I may have to fly to Washington – I was thinking about it last night.'

‘To see Brunson?'

‘To see somebody. I'm sure this isn't an isolated assassination. We've got to get together with Langley and try to work out who could be next and why?'